The caravan wheels rumbled along the dusty road as the golden banners of Madame Rosa's troupe faded into the distance. Naki leaned out the window, the warm Ghanaian wind whipping through her braids. For the first time in years, the scent of home—sawdust, roasted plantain, and river breeze—filled her lungs.
She was coming back, not as a runaway clown or a reckless dreamer, but as the Flying Star.
Kwesi rode beside her on horseback, torch strapped to his back as always. "Hard to believe, huh?" he called. "Little Naki returns with trophies and applause."
Naki laughed softly. "And burns and bruises," she said, flexing her scarred hand. "But it was worth it."
The road curved, and there it was—the old Mensah Circus Grounds. Faded tents. Crooked poles. Familiar chaos. It wasn't the glittering perfection of Rosa's troupe, but it was alive, stubborn, full of soul.
The twins, Ama and Kojo, spotted the caravan first. "Look who it is!" they shouted, racing to greet her. "Our prodigy sister's back from the land of fancy lanterns!"
Behind them, Grandpa Ofori hobbled out of the main tent, his cane tapping against the earth. His eyes lit up like embers. "Ah, the sky child returns!"
Naki jumped down from the wagon and ran to him, hugging him tightly. "Grandpa, I missed you."
"And I, you," he said, voice trembling with pride. "The stars have followed you home."
But not everyone shared his warmth. Madam Efua emerged from the shadows of the main tent, her crimson shawl draped over her shoulders. Her gaze, as always, was sharp enough to cut through silence.
"So," she said quietly, "the Flying Star graces us with her presence."
Naki met her mother's eyes without flinching. "I came back to help. To make the Mensah Circus shine again."
Efua folded her arms. "And you think fame from foreign lands will fix what's here? These people aren't nobles, Naki. They're family. They bleed, they fall, they eat dust."
"Then I'll lift them," Naki said, her voice steady. "We'll build something better—together."
For a heartbeat, Efua said nothing. Then, in a voice rough with exhaustion rather than anger, she replied, "We'll see if your light can survive in the place it was born."
That night, under the Ghanaian sky, Naki stood before the old tent. The ropes creaked, the fabric sagged, but to her, it glowed like gold. Children peeked from the caravans, whispering her name.
She looked up at the stars and smiled.
She was home—not to rest, but to rebuild.
And this time, she wasn't just going to fly for herself. She was going to help the whole circus learn to soar.