‘Mum, Nisha isn’t coming back, is she?’ Aliki was standing in the doorway, looking at me with sombre eyes.
‘You’re awake, baby. I was hoping you would sleep longer.’
‘She’s gone,’ my daughter said, simply.
‘I think so,’ I said. ‘I think she might be gone.’
‘She made my heart be full of stars, now it’s just dark inside me.’
I reached out and Aliki came to me. I pulled her into my lap, her gangly legs barely contained on my knees, the fug of sleep still clinging to her sweatpants and T-shirt. I stroked her hair, pulling it back from her face, and she closed her eyes.
And then we both heard it. Shouts. Cries. A murmur that was growing, beginning to swell. Aliki sprang off my lap and ran to the door. I followed her. We both stood in the doorway, watching people pass by.
First, we saw the two Filipino maids who always walked with the young girl between them, the pretty little girl with pigtails, holding each of their hands. But this time they were without the child, and heading down the street with a solemn determination. Then we saw Nilmini stepping out of Yiakoumi’s shop, untying her apron and leaving it by the front door as she headed in the same direction.
When I looked back at Aliki she was crying. I put my arms around her and she cried into my chest; I felt the weight of her on me and I embraced her, tighter. Then she held herself upright and watched the maids pass by. There were so many now, all heading in the same direction. I held Aliki’s hand tight. Her tears fell down her cheeks and dropped onto the cobbled street. I imagined a stream, flowing, a stream of tears flowing in the direction that the maids were heading.
The two maids at Theo’s abandoned their tasks and followed the crowd. Finally, Ruba from Mrs Hadjikyriacou’s house next door stepped out, closing the door behind her.
I stopped her. ‘Where are they going? What is happening?’
‘Come and see,’ she said.
Aliki shoved her feet into the nearest Converse and we followed the maids.
*
Women that I’d never seen before in the neighbourhood were joining in. They watched from windows and came out as the women passed, without a second thought joining the rest. Most were immigrant workers and there were children, too, some Aliki’s age, some even younger, who held the hands of their nannies as they followed the crowd. We walked along the backstreets from the Famagusta Gate until we reached the Cyprus Museum, then we took the main road all the way down to the Presidential Palace. There, a crowd of thousands, dressed mostly in black, spread out across the street below the palace holding lighted candles with their heads bowed in prayer. Others held banners reading ‘Misogyny and Racism Must Stop’ or ‘End discrimination towards women and foreigners’ and ‘We sacrifice our lives’。 I saw Soneeya and Binsa in the crowd, standing close together with candles in their hands, directing their shouts at the white palace. In her hand, Binsa held a banner that simply said: ‘Where are they?’
We stayed out for hours and the sun began to set as the afternoon turned late. Someone handed Aliki a candle and she held it high above her head, joining the shouts and demands. She was still crying, but kept the candle aloft. As the darkness gathered the candles glowed, beacons everywhere. There were so many women, so many faces, so many voices raised in chorus and hope.
This was the story of Nisha Jayakody, as I understood it:
Nisha was a mother of two children, who lived in different worlds.
Nisha’s child in Sri Lanka has straight hair, so soft it feels like the down of an owl.
Nisha’s other child is my child. Nisha had lost her first love.
Nisha knew how to love.
Nisha filled my daughter’s heart with stars.
I owe Nisha more than I could ever repay her.
*
That night, when I came in to kiss Aliki goodnight, she was sitting up in bed, looking out of the window. I followed her gaze to Monkey, who was outside and pawing at the window-panes, trying to get in.
‘Look, Mum, it is our cat!’ Aliki said. She began to laugh and then, quite suddenly, she exhaled and gave in to a mighty exhaustion and began to cry. She scrunched her face and her tears flowed out. They flowed like they would never stop this time and amongst her sobs she said, ‘I’m so tired,’ and, ‘I miss Nisha so much.’ I sat down beside her and held her in my arms. I held her in a way that I never had, like I should have all those years gone, like Nisha had always wanted me to. I felt my daughter crying on me, I felt her tears soaking into the skin of my neck, into my veins, right through to my heart.