by Jim McCann
“They worked exactly as you made them. Everything was perfectly executed,” T’Challa said.
Shuri sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you, brother? Just because something works doesn’t mean there isn’t room for improvement.” She made her way to Okoye.
“Thank you, Princess,” Okoye said as she handed the Kimoyo beads to Shuri. “I look forward to what your mind has in store next for these.”
Shuri looked at T’Challa and Nakia, who was now paying her condolences to Ramonda.
Ramonda hugged her son after Nakia had walked away. “Thank you for bringing her home safely, T’Challa. It warms my heart to see her.”
“She didn’t want to leave. If it wasn’t for the ceremony tomorrow, I doubt she would have come back,” T’Challa told his mother.
Ramonda smiled knowingly. “You brought her. I am certain that had something to do with her decision as well. Nakia is strong-willed, and so are you. Perhaps it is time for you to be more open with your heart?”
T’Challa shrugged, unwilling to let the conversation go in that direction, and promptly shifted the focus. “How are you, Mother?”
“Proud,” she answered, her soft smile echoing the sentiment. “Your father and I would talk about this day all the time, and now it has come at last.”
T’Challa felt a pang of grief in his heart. “He should be here with us still. This day has come too soon,” he said softly.
Ramonda placed her arm around her son. “He is where Bast wills him to be and at the time Bast wills it.” She looked at the prince. “Now it is your time to be king, T’Challa.”
As they headed into the palace, T’Challa’s mind drifted back to his father’s casket in the Hall of Kings. Tomorrow, Wakanda would crown a new king. T’Challa hoped he could live up to his father’s legacy.
The sun reached its zenith in the azure sky as it gleamed upon the Wakandan River. Barges filled the river, all drifting downstream. Members of all four tribes of Wakanda filled their individual barges: Mining, River, Border, and Merchant Tribes all in full representation. In the rear of the procession, the Royal Barge was lined with both the Kingsguard and the Dora Milaje. On the barge stood Shuri and her friend Ayo, a member of the Dora Milaje.
Shuri was antsy, unused to wearing her regal garments and attending royal events. Give her a white coat over these bells and whistles any day. “I feel like a backup dancer,” she told Ayo.
“You are more like Beyoncé here, Princess,” Ayo replied with a smile.
Ramonda gave her daughter a reproachful look. “Watch your tongue, girl, and open your eyes.” She waved her arm in the direction of the riverbank, where thousands of Wakandans walked, all marching toward the same destination. “Rituals are vital to who we are, and today is about unity. Each tribe will put forth their greatest warrior, who will fight for the throne or willingly choose not to, showing confidence in our family.”
“Even you could challenge your brother, Princess,” Ayo remarked slyly.
Shuri rolled her eyes. “And be stuck on a throne and deal with elders all day, every day? No thank you. I have my lab; that’s kingdom enough for me.”
The barges continued to sail downriver before banking near the large waterfall that marked Warrior Falls. The Kingsguard exited the barge and made their way to the foot of the waterfall. As one, they slammed their shields into slots in the ground. The sudden dam diverted the flow of water, and the pool below drained, revealing the Challenge Arena. Rows and rows of seating were carved into the stone pool, all facing a large area where the challengers would compete to become the next king of Wakanda.
The Royal Family took their seats, and the rest of the area began to fill with Wakandans, all eager for the day’s events. Each tribe sat in their designated section. Shuri looked over at the River Tribe and saw Nakia seated among her people. She gave a small wave. Above the pool, the thousands of Wakandans who had walked to Warrior Falls lined the area, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, all vying for a view of the proceedings.
A man of about fifty entered the center group. He was Zuri, the High Shaman, carrying with him the Spear of Bashenga. An elder and a chosen warrior from each tribe entered the Challenge Pool. The shaman raised his spear.
“I, Zuri, son of Badu, welcome you all, the tribes of Wakanda, to the Challenge ritual. Representatives of each tribe are present, as is called upon,” he said, surveying the members of the four tribes joining him. “I now give to you Prince T’Challa, the Black Panther!”
From above, a Royal Talon Fighter descended, and T’Challa dropped down onto the surface of the arena. He entered the Challenge Pool. He was not wearing his Black Panther garb. Rather, he was covered in leopard body paint and carried a short spear and a shield. He surveyed the enormous crowd gathered to watch his fate unfold.
From her seat among the River Tribe, Nakia studied T’Challa. She doubted few, if anyone, apart from her, could tell that under the confident, determined attitude he was trying to project, he looked slightly overwhelmed. She smiled, knowing how uncomfortable all the attention was probably making him.
T’Challa walked over to Zuri and bowed. Zuri held a ceremonial vessel in his hand and presented it to T’Challa. “Drink this, Prince T’Challa, and the powers granted you by the Panther god will be stripped from your body so that you may equally combat any who challenge you.”
T’Challa took the vessel and drank. Within seconds he could feel a burning sensation course through his body. As the liquid took effect, he looked down to see the veins in his arms darkening and bulging. He could feel the herb racing through him, relieving him of his Black Panther powers.
He faced Zuri, handing the vessel back to the shaman. Zuri reached into a pouch and pulled out a panther mask. He held it out to T’Challa, who took it and placed it over his face.
Zuri addressed the assembled masses. “Victory in ritual combat comes by yield or death. Should anyone try to interfere, they must pay with their life. So now I offer a path to the throne. Does any tribe wish to put forth a warrior?”
“The Mining Tribe declines to challenge the prince,” said the tribe elder. Zuri acknowledged the decree with a nod, and the Mining Tribe’s warrior and elder took their seats among their people.
One by one, the other three tribes—Border, River, and Merchant—all followed the Mining Tribe in declining to challenge the throne. After the final tribe had taken their seat, Zuri turned back to T’Challa, holding the crown in his hands.
“Tribes of Wakanda, without challenge, Prince T’Challa is—” Zuri’s coronation speech was interrupted by the sounds of a steady drumbeat that suddenly filled the arena.
Six warriors appeared and made their way down to the Challenge Pool arena, flanked by two drummers pounding out a beat on their wooden instruments. The warriors were adorned in wooden armor and wielded long wooden spears. In the center of the group, the largest of the warriors had a gorilla mask covering his face.
The crowd reacted in shock at the sight, breaking out into slightly panicked murmurs as the warrior approached Zuri and lifted his mask, revealing a sneer and eyes filled with deep loathing. The shaman looked at the warrior with disdain. “How dare you interfere with today’s ceremony,” Zuri murmured, shaking his head.
“I, M’Baku, leader of the Jabari clan, demand representation at these proceedings today. No longer will our voices be silenced!” he bellowed for all to hear.
“We made an agreement with your tribe to leave you to your mountains, and you would leave us in peace,” Zuri countered.
M’Baku glared at the shaman and began to pace the arena as he spoke. “An agreement made thousands of years ago, witch doctor! Today is a new day. We have watched and listened from the mountains. We heard of T’Challa’s trips to engage with outsiders. We watched with disgust as your technological developments have been overseen by a child who scoffs at tradition.”
In her seat, Shuri stiffened as M’Baku made intentional eye contact with her. Ayo stepped in front of the
Royal Family. M’Baku made his way to stand face-to-face with T’Challa. “And now you want to hand the nation over to this prince, who could not even keep his own father safe?” T’Challa clenched his fist at the sharp insult, but he said nothing. “We will not stand for it!”
M’Baku made his way to the center of the arena. “I, M’Baku, leader of the Jabari clan, wish to challenge for the throne!” The drummers began their pounding again in a fast, rhythmic beat.
Zuri looked to T’Challa, rendered speechless, unsure of how to proceed.
T’Challa stepped forward and stretched one hand toward M’Baku. He looked directly at his challenger. “I accept.”
Ignoring T’Challa’s outstretched hand, M’Baku placed the gorilla mask over his face again, slammed his spear into the ground, and yelled for all to hear, “Glory to Hanuman!”
Zuri left the Challenge Pool arena to take his place among the Royal Family as the two opponents began to circle each other, waiting to see who would make the first move. The Jabari warriors and the Dora Milaje faced off on opposite sides of the pool, both groups with spears raised.
Without warning, M’Baku lunged at T’Challa. The much-larger warrior landed a nasty blow to the prince’s chest, knocking him off his feet. M’Baku leaped toward the fallen Wakandan and raised his spear, but T’Challa swiftly rolled to the side before M’Baku could make contact again. The prince kicked at M’Baku’s leg, knocking the Jabari warrior momentarily off balance. With each hit, the Jabari and Dora moved a step closer, forcing the two fighters closer toward the edge of the Pool.
Jumping to his feet, T’Challa swung his leg around and kicked M’Baku’s stomach. The challenger grunted in pain but quickly recovered, rage in his eyes. He sprang high into the air, and T’Challa went flying as M’Baku’s foot connected with the prince’s head. T’Challa dropped both his spear and his shield upon the impact. His ears ringing, T’Challa momentarily lost his balance and fell to the ground. Without his Black Panther abilities, T’Challa was not as physically powerful as M’Baku. He felt vulnerable and wondered how long he could keep the Jabari warrior at bay, much less defeat him. He had barely caught his breath when M’Baku was upon him once more, the two now even closer to the edge than before.
In the stands, Shuri looked worriedly at her mother. Ramonda raised her hand slightly. “He will win. He must simply find the strength we all know is inside him. For his family. For Wakanda.”
Shuri stood, raising her voice so her brother could hear her. “C’mon, T’Challa! Kick his butt back to the mountains!”
Nearby, Nakia began to cheer, “T’Challa! T’Challa!” Ramonda, Shuri, Ayo, and Okoye began to echo her encouragement. Soon the chant spread among all the Wakandan people, urging their would-be leader onward.
Still on the ground, T’Challa was being pummeled by M’Baku. Through the buzzing in his head, he began to hear the cheers of his family and friends, of his nation. He ducked away from M’Baku’s fist, and the warrior’s hand connected hard with the unyielding ground. T’Challa regained enough strength to grab M’Baku’s spear. As the two men struggled for control of the weapon, it snapped in half.
T’Challa rolled away and snatched up his own fallen spear as the Dora and Jabari took yet another step forward. In one fluid motion, he pivoted and struck M’Baku’s thigh. The large man roared in pain. The crowd cheered louder as T’Challa leaped into the air and wrapped his legs around M’Baku’s neck, toppling the warrior to the ground. T’Challa rolled across the length of the Challenge Pool, around and around, his legs like a vise around M’Baku’s neck.
“Yield!” T’Challa yelled to his foe.
“N-never,” M’Baku croaked out defiantly.
T’Challa applied more pressure. “I will not kill you, M’Baku! You must yield! Not for me, but for the people whose very existence depends on you! They need you. Please, for them—yield.”
But M’Baku just continued to struggle. They were nearly entirely outside the Pool now. T’Challa’s leg muscles rippled as they tightened and refused to give way.
“M’Baku,” T’Challa implored one last time. “Please. For your tribesmen.”
Finally, after a long pause, M’Baku raised his hand and tapped the ground twice, indicating his surrender. T’Challa tentatively loosened his legs, and the other warrior rolled onto his back. “I yield,” M’Baku said weakly.
T’Challa shakily got to his feet as Zuri approached him. The victor looked at the audience surrounding the Challenge Pool, only moments ago so boisterous, which had now fallen silent.
“Wakanda forever!” He raised his fist to the sky. The crowd erupted in a roar of approval.
Zuri took his place by T’Challa’s side, held his other hand high, and proclaimed: “I give you King T’Challa, the Black Panther!”
The entire arena exploded with sound as the nation rejoiced in the new king’s victory.
T’Challa looked back to M’Baku as he sulked off through the mouth of the cave entrance from which he had come, trailed by his fellow Jabari tribesmen. They did not congratulate T’Challa on his well-earned victory.
But the new king ignored the insult and turned his attention back to the rest of the Wakandan citizens. He had more important matters at hand. It was now his job, his right, his destiny to protect, serve, and rule as the king of Wakanda.
That night, T’Challa entered the Hall of Kings, his injuries from the battle bandaged and his spirits high. Zuri was awaiting him, the ceremonial vessel from the Challenge Arena at his side.
Zuri bowed. “My king.”
T’Challa returned the bow, a small thrill coursing through him at being addressed as “King.”
Zuri picked up the ceremonial vessel. T’Challa knew it was filled with a liquid comprised of the heart-shaped herb mixed with water. The liquid began to glow slightly.
“Lay down,” Zuri instructed. T’Challa obeyed, lying prone on the ground as he was buried in dirt.
“You have earned the right to reclaim the power of the Black Panther, as is granted all rulers of Wakanda for centuries past until they deem it fit to pass on to the next generation, as your father did with you.” Zuri brought the vessel to T’Challa’s lips. “Drink and be restored.”
T’Challa drank down the contents without hesitation. Within seconds he began to feel the power pulse through his veins. His heartbeat grew loud in his ears.
“Relax,” Zuri instructed. “Your spirit will now leave your body and travel to the Ancestral Plane, as is tradition in the coronation. You will have an audience with the Panthers and kings who have come before. Use this time well, my king.”
T’Challa felt the world around him begin to swirl and fade as darkness overtook him.
When T’Challa opened his eyes, he was outside. The stars burned extra bright in the sky above and seemed to move in their orbits. Tall acacia trees surrounded the field he was in, and the grasslands moved gently back and forth in the light breeze. As he rose to his feet, T’Challa could see the glowing yellow eyes of panthers perched in one such particularly majestic tree, their jet-black coats blending in with the night. These were the spirits of the Black Panthers of generations past. Suddenly, one of the panthers leaped down from the tree and transformed into a familiar figure, who began to approach him. Tears immediately welled in T’Challa’s eyes.
“Baba,” he whispered.
Before him stood the spirit of T’Chaka, dressed in full royal gown. Next to that spirit was a shadow of a younger T’Chaka, wearing his Black Panther suit. The two personages merged as T’Chaka reached his son. T’Challa grabbed his father in a tight hug.
“My son, my king, my Black Panther.” T’Chaka smiled proudly. “I never doubted you.”
“I did, Baba. Forgive me, but for a moment, in the Challenge Pool, I had a moment of reservation,” T’Challa confessed.
“And what eased that doubt?” T’Chaka asked.
“The cries of the people. Of my people. I could not fail in my duty and disappoint them,” T’
Challa said, remembering his hesitation in the pool, when he was nearly sure M’Baku would overtake him, before the chanting of the Wakandans reached his ears and revived his spirit.
T’Chaka smiled again. “Remember that feeling, my son. You are correct: They are your people now, and they will look to you for guidance. The path of a ruler is long and filled with moments where you will question yourself. Do you not think I had my own personal crises, times when I doubted myself or wondered what was best for our land?”
T’Challa was surprised. He had assumed T’Chaka was never anything but the strong figure of a confident leader that T’Challa had always looked up to and admired, even idolized.
“Really?” he asked skeptically.
“Of course,” T’Chaka answered. “I surrounded myself with wise advisers, elders, and, of course, your mother. That you never saw my doubts as a ruler is what helped me to be successful and guide you.”
“You were taken from us before your time, Baba. I don’t know that I am ready.” T’Challa looked at his father pleadingly.
His father placed both of his hands on T’Challa’s shoulders and looked deep into his son’s eyes. “A man who has not prepared his children for his own death has failed as a father. Have I ever failed you, son?”
T’Challa shook his head.
“You must move forward. My time has ended. You are king now,” T’Chaka said.
“How do I best lead the tribes, Baba? I want to be a great king, like you were.” T’Challa truly felt his father had been the greatest ruler of any land.
T’Chaka met his son’s gaze. “You will struggle, my son,” he said, his voice tinged with sadness.
“Why?” asked T’Challa.
“Because you are a good man,” T’Chaka said with a sigh, “and it is hard for good men to be king.”
