The Mensah Circus had not seen a full crowd in years. But that night, the bleachers were overflowing, lanterns swinging in the warm Accra wind, and the air alive with chatter. Word had spread across the city—the Flying Star had returned home.
Vendors called out between drumbeats, selling sugarbread and roasted peanuts. Children painted stars on their cheeks, chanting Naki's name. For the first time, hope flickered again under the patched tent.
Behind the curtain, Naki's hands trembled—not from fear, but anticipation. Kwesi's fire torches hissed nearby, the smell of smoke thick and comforting.
"You ready, sis?" he asked, grinning.
She nodded. "Let's remind them who we are."
The drums thundered.
Naki leapt into the air as the torches flared beneath her. She spun through the smoke, flipping twice before catching the bar, her shadow dancing along the tent walls. Laughter mixed with awe as she wove acrobatics with clownish humor, balancing a spinning torch on her foot before hurling it perfectly toward Kwesi.
The crowd roared.
And among them, a figure in royal indigo robes leaned forward in fascination. His golden sash shimmered, and his attendants whispered his name: Prince Malik of Zubari.
He did not clap—he studied. Every twist, every balance, every burst of fire reflected in his keen, curious eyes.
When Naki landed her final flip, striking her signature pose, the audience erupted. "Flying Star! Flying Star!"
But Prince Malik simply smiled. "So this is Ghana's star," he murmured. "The circus with heart."
After the show, while the crowd drifted away, a royal messenger appeared at the Mensah caravan. "Her Highness requests the presence of Nakiya Mensah and Madam Efua."
Efua stiffened. "What does a prince want with us?"
"Opportunity," the messenger said, bowing slightly.
Inside the royal pavilion tent, incense swirled in the air. Prince Malik rose from his cushioned seat, his tone polite yet firm. "Your performance tonight was extraordinary. The balance of comedy, danger, and grace—unlike anything I've seen."
Naki bowed low. "Your Highness is too kind."
"I speak truth," Malik replied. "The arts of Zubari thrive on spectacle, but not on spirit. You and your troupe have both. I wish to sponsor your circus—new tents, new ropes, new instruments. In return, the Mensah Circus will perform for the royal festival next month."
Efua's eyes widened. "Royal sponsorship? That's… unheard of."
Malik's smile was warm but deliberate. "Then let us make history together."
Naki could barely breathe. A royal patronage meant security—funding, audiences, prestige. Everything she had dreamed of bringing home.
But as she accepted the offer with a bow, she caught the flicker of hesitation in her mother's eyes.
Efua's voice was measured. "We are honored, Your Highness. But we are simple performers. We serve the people, not palaces."
Malik's gaze lingered on Naki. "Perhaps. But sometimes the people need a palace to remind them how high they can climb."
That night, under the lanterns, the Mensah Circus celebrated. The crowd sang, drums boomed, and for the first time, the patchwork tents seemed to glow again.
Naki stood apart, looking toward the stars.
Royal sponsorship meant fame and fortune—but also politics, expectation, and danger. Still, she whispered to herself, "If the world is ready to watch, I'll give them something worth remembering."
The Flying Star was rising again.