A week later, I step off a rattling bus onto the busy streets of Accra. The afternoon sun bathes the familiar city skyline in a hazy glow. Horns blare, vendors call out, and the ocean breeze carries the tang of salt and exhaust. It is the same bustling world I left behind, yet I feel as though I've lived a lifetime since I last walked these streets.
With a small travel bag over my shoulder and red dust still clinging to my boots, I make my way through the neighborhood where I grew up. Children play football in the road, shouting and laughing. Around the corner, I see the modest compound I call home – pale yellow walls and a tin roof, laundry fluttering on the line in the courtyard.
My heart quickens. I hadn't sent word ahead; part of me wanted to simply appear, to reassure my family in the flesh. As I push open the wrought-iron gate, the familiar creak announces my arrival.
"Obasi?" My mother's voice rings out from the verandah before I even see her. She comes rushing down the steps, a dish towel still in hand and disbelief bright in her eyes. She must have been preparing an early dinner, judging by the scent of spiced fish wafting from the kitchen window.
"Mama..." I manage, and then she throws her arms around me, towel and all. I drop my bag and hug her tightly. In her embrace, I feel an anchor that kept me tethered through all the storms of recent days. I'm taller than her now, but in that hug I might as well be a child again, safe and loved.
She pulls back, holding me at arm's length to scan my face. "You're thin, and these scrapes... Are you alright? We heard there was trouble during the eclipse..." Her words tumble out. She must have sensed something of the danger, even without knowing my role in it.
"I'm alright, Mama," I assure her softly. "Better than alright." I place my hand over hers, which still grips my shoulder as if I might vanish. "It's... a long story. But I'm home now."
Behind her, my little sister bolts out of the doorway and throws herself into our hug. I laugh as I'm nearly bowled over by her enthusiasm. My family surrounds me, ushering me into the courtyard amid tears, laughter, and endless questions.
Later in the evening, after the excitement has settled and a warm meal has filled me up, I slip away to the backyard. The sun is just beginning to set, coloring the western sky with streaks of orange and purple. Eventide – that gentle time between day and night – has always been my favorite hour here.
I carry a small bowl of water and a calabash cup out to the foot of the old mango tree where my grandmother is buried. Setting the bowl down, I pour a libation of cool water onto the roots of the tree, just as she taught me. "Medaase, Nana," I whisper. Thank you. I thank her for guiding me and for giving me courage when I needed it most. The water soaks into the soil, and a sense of peace washes over me.
Beyond the wall, a neighbor's radio plays a familiar tune while voices chat amiably. The normalcy of it warms me. Battle and cosmic wonders aside, this is the world I fought for – a world of small joys and everyday rhythms.
My mother steps outside, draping a shawl around her shoulders. She finds me under the mango tree and approaches quietly. "You were thanking the ancestors, weren't you," she says gently.
I nod, smiling. There is so much I could tell her – about Nyos, about the ancestral dream, about the friends I made. For now, I simply ask, "Grandma would be proud, wouldn't she?"
Mama's eyes glisten as she reaches up to stroke my cheek. "Oh yes. We all are." Then she adds, with gentle sternness, "Though we won't be truly happy until you've had a proper bath and rest!"
I chuckle. "I promise, I'm getting to it."
We walk back to the house together. I realize I have changed in ways my family might only sense in quiet moments – but I am still their Obasi. I help Mama close the shutters for the evening and light the little kerosene lamp in our living room. My sister trails me, bombarding me with questions about my adventure. I wink and tell her I'll share some stories tomorrow, perhaps with a few extra monsters and miracles to make her gasp.
When night falls, I step out one last time into the courtyard. The city lights halo the sky, but I can still pick out a few bright stars. I pick out one particularly bright star and imagine it's the same that guided me on my journey.
In that moment, I feel a vast web of connection – family, friends, ancestors – linking me like constellations in the sky. Nyos's shadow has faded; our community is healing and hopeful.
I have no special powers – only the love of my people and the wisdom of those before me. And that is enough.
I whisper a final prayer of gratitude to the darkening sky and step into the warmth of home, heart steady, certain the ancestors smile down from the stars.