Coming home feels like walking into a memory wearing new skin.
Lagos is loud, chaotic, humid—and real in a way Paris never was.
Real like okadas rushing past, like hawkers calling your name wrong, like your auntie asking why you're still not married five minutes after hugging you.
Real like being known too well and still misunderstood.
---
Nene meets me at the airport with a banner that says:
*"Welcome Back, International Queen of Vibes."*
She's crying before I even reach her.
"I missed you, jare," she says, clinging to me like I'm oxygen.
"I missed you too."
---
At night, I lie in my old bed, staring at the ceiling fan wobbling as it turns.
Tari's in Abuja, wrapping up a project. He'll join me in a few days.
And me?
I'm wondering what this next version of Ayanna looks like.
Because Paris changed me.
Not into someone else—
But into someone I'm no longer afraid to be.
---
On campus, the whispers follow me again.
"She's the one who went to France, abi?"
"Her TED Talk's online, go watch."
But now I smile at them.
Not because I need the attention.
But because I no longer shrink from it.
---
A lecturer asks me to guest-speak in a final-year class.
The same hall where I once shook reading a poem about pain.
This time, I walk in with steady hands.
"Tell us," one student asks, "what was the biggest thing you learned abroad?"
I pause. Then say:
**"That leaving doesn't always mean running.
Sometimes it's returning to yourself.
Louder. Braver. Softer. And still whole."**
---
Tari arrives two days later with a backpack, a wide grin, and arms that still feel like safety.
We sit under the mango tree near my hostel, legs stretched out, his head resting on my lap.
"You look different," he says.
"Good different?"
He nods. "Paris polished your fire. You're still Ayanna, just… brighter."
I smile. "And you? Still dancing like the world depends on it?"
He shrugs. "Now more than ever. A director from South Africa reached out. Wants me to join a touring dance company next year."
My heart skips.
"That's huge!"
"It is," he says. "But it's also not here."
Silence.
A breeze moves through the trees.
"I guess we're at that chapter again," I whisper. "The part where life asks us to stretch."
He looks at me. "Would you come with me?"
"To South Africa?"
He nods.
I pause.
Then: "Would you come with me if the roles were reversed?"
"No question."
"Then yes."
---
We make the decision together.
Not out of fear. Not from pressure.
But from something softer—*the kind of love that evolves, adapts, stays.*
---
In the following weeks, we begin planning.
Residency for him. Writing workshops for me.
A shared apartment. A new city.
Not the end of our story—just another setting.
---
*Excerpt from Ayanna's journal:*
*Coming home wasn't about returning to where I started.*
*It was about recognizing the people who taught me how to leave—and still belong.*
*I used to fear distance.*
*Now I understand: love doesn't end at borders.*
*It builds bridges.*
---