The festival grounds buzzed louder than ever, lanterns flickering like stars strung low to the earth. Tonight, the Mensah Circus was sharing the stage with a visiting troupe from the north. Their wagons, painted with swirls of indigo and silver, stood proudly beside the Mensah caravans, and a murmur of curiosity rippled through the crowds.
Naki peeked around a tent pole, clutching her juggling pins. The visiting performers dazzled with their polished costumes and golden accents, moving with the confidence of artists who had already conquered the world.
And then she saw him.
A boy about her age, standing tall on the central rope, his body poised like a bird in flight. His dark hair caught the light, his arms spread wide as if he owned the sky. With a grin, he leapt from one rope to another, flipping twice before landing with effortless grace. The crowd erupted in cheers.
"That's Ayoa Boateng," Grandpa Ofori murmured from behind her. "They call him 'Sky.' A trapeze prodigy. He's been performing since he could walk."
Naki's chest tightened. Prodigy. The word I dream of.
Later, when the show ended and the visiting troupe mingled with the Mensahs, Naki found herself face-to-face with him near the water barrels.
"You're the clown girl," Ayoa said, his smile tilted like a challenge.
Naki bristled. "And you're the one who thinks he can own the air."
He laughed, warm but edged with arrogance. "I don't just think it. I do."
Something in his tone set her off. "Then prove it. Tonight. On the ropes."
His grin widened. "A duel, then. Midnight."
The rehearsal tent was silent but for the creak of ropes. Lantern light cast long shadows across the dirt floor as Naki climbed onto the platform, her heart hammering. Ayoa stood opposite her, balanced on his rope as if it were solid ground.
"Scared, clown girl?" he teased.
"Scared you'll fall on your face," she shot back, gripping the bar.
And then they leapt.
Back and forth they soared, trading tricks like blows in a battle. Naki twisted into a midair somersault; Ayoa answered with a triple spin. She swung from rope to rope, catching herself at the last possible second; he slid upside-down, arms folded as if bored. Each move pushed the other higher, faster, braver.
Sweat stung Naki's brow, but her spirit soared. For the first time, she wasn't hiding—she was seen.
At last, they both landed on opposite platforms, panting, grins wide.
"You're good," Ayoa admitted. "For someone who paints her face like a fool."
Naki smirked. "And you're not as untouchable as you think."
Their laughter filled the empty tent, sharp but genuine. Rivalry burned between them, but so did something else—an unspoken respect.
As Ayoa vanished into the night, he called over his shoulder: "Next time, clown girl, don't hold back. I want your best."
Naki stood on the platform, chest heaving, a smile tugging at her lips. For the first time, she had found not just a rival, but a mirror—a reminder that she was not alone in dreaming of the sky.