Black Panther

by Ronald L. Smith

  T’Challa looked heavenward. He thought back to the stories his father had told him when he was a child. Thousands of years ago, his father had said, a great meteor crashed into Wakanda. Amid the smoking and burning debris, something was found—something that would change the future of their country.

  It was an energy-absorbing metal that vibrated upon closer inspection. The warriors of Wakanda crafted weapons from it and learned that it was stronger than any mineral, gemstone, or metal they had ever seen. They called it Vibranium.

  But there was a downside.

  The crash site was radioactive, and several Wakandans were supposedly turned into demon spirits. That was when the great warrior Bashenga prayed to the Panther God, Bast, for strength and defeated them. He became the first Black Panther, and his line led down through the ages to T’Challa’s father and to him.

  T’Challa let out a breath. There was another story his father told him, and it usually came to him when he was alone or feeling melancholy. It was of his mother, N’Yami, who died after bringing him into the world. She was a true Queen of Wakanda, his father had said, beautiful and strong. Sometimes T’Challa imagined her walking hand in hand with his father among their people, proud and loved by all.

  I wish I had known you, Mother.

  A rustling in the bushes made him turn. “Who’s there?” he called.

  All was quiet for a moment, until a figure appeared out of the woods surrounding the oasis.

  “Thought I’d find you here…brother.”

  T’Challa stiffened. “What are you doing here?”

  Hunter approached him with a swagger. “I always know where to find you. You’re as loud as an elephant.”

  T’Challa bristled. His older stepbrother was known as one of the best trackers in Wakanda, even at his young age.

  “I know you’re going away,” Hunter continued. “Father told me.”

  He already knows?

  Hunter smiled, and it was not friendly. “Don’t worry. When the fighting starts, I’ll be here by Father’s side, not running off to hide in America.”

  T’Challa clenched his fists. His pulse raced. It was always like this with Hunter—each one-upping the other, trying to gain the king’s favor.

  “It’s not my decision to go,” T’Challa said. “If it were up to me, I’d stay. I’m not afraid to fight.”

  Hunter laughed and drew close to T’Challa, so that the two boys were facing each other, with only a few inches between them. Hunter’s eyes were green, and they gleamed with a cold light. “Say whatever you like, little brother. But while you’re away, I’ll keep your royal seat warm for you.”

  And with that, he turned and disappeared back into the woods.

  T’Challa fumed. The sting of his words cut deep. But that was what Hunter did best—getting under his skin. I am Father’s true son, he thought. Not you.

  He thought back to the story his father had told him long ago. Hunter was an orphan, the only survivor of a plane crash in which his mother and father had died. Many Wakandans didn’t accept him because of his white skin, but the king took him in and raised him as his own.

  But you’ll never be Black Panther, T’Challa thought. I have the birthright, and the blood.

  T’Challa looked down. Bast was circling his legs, purring loudly. He reached down and picked her up, and returned to his room, Hunter’s words still ringing in his ears.

  Over the next few days, T’Challa had a lot to do. He not only had to pack all his clothes—what did kids wear in America?—but he also had to finish his classes with his tutors. Being the son of the king meant that all his lessons were given privately in the Royal Palace. There were also the duties that came with being a prince. These were his least favorite, but there was no getting around them. Matters of state, his father called them.

  Often, when his father had visitors, T’Challa had to put on formal clothes and stand by his father’s side, as if he too were deciding important issues. This was not true, of course—it was only a display of unity on behalf of the royal family. M’Baku often ribbed him for all the praise and attention he received just for doing nothing. Prince Lucky, he called him. T’Challa usually brushed it off, but sometimes it really grated at him.

  The news spread quickly through Wakanda that their prince was going away. His father called it a journey of discovery and said that his son would be traveling abroad to learn about the greater world. It seemed to T’Challa that the king didn’t even want his own people to know his true whereabouts. How dangerous was this threat he had spoken of? He would have to ask before he left for America.

  America.

  He was reminded once again of the strangeness of it all. He just hoped that he and M’Baku would be able to fit in.

  The day before the celebration, T’Challa and M’Baku took a walk through the city center. Preparations were underway. Open-air pavilions were being set up, and T’Challa marveled at the Wakandan artistry on display. Some structures were made from material that looked as thin as paper, but curved and folded into elaborate shapes. Some bore wide ribbons of red and yellow cloth formed into houselike structures and adorned at the top with great capstones. But the one that took his breath away was a pyramid that looked to be made of glass, sparkling in the sun.

  “This is all for you, my friend,” M’Baku said, waving a hand in the air.

  “Well, you, too,” T’Challa countered. “It’s for both of us.”

  M’Baku frowned. “Right. Keep telling yourself that.”

  T’Challa shook his head. “Your father is a high-ranking military official. A close advisor to the king. Your well-being is just as important as mine.”

  M’Baku nodded along, and then his eyes brightened. “Hey, I have an idea. Maybe when we get to America, I’ll be the prince and you can be the pauper.”

  “Very funny,” countered T’Challa. “You’re a real joker.”

  That night, T’Challa met his father at the palace to learn more about his trip. He entered the throne room as another man was leaving. He was clean-shaven and massive, with arms as big as tree trunks. He nodded respectfully at T’Challa and then left the room.

  T’Challa listened to the man’s footsteps as they faded down the hall. After waiting another moment, he flopped into one of the many chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him. He rubbed his forehead.

  “Tired?” his father asked.

  T’Challa looked up. “Not really. Just wondering what it’ll be like in Chicago.” He shifted in his seat. “Why did you choose it? Why not New York or another city?”

  The Black Panther cradled his chin in his hands. “I spent time there when I was a young man, studying and learning about the world outside of Wakanda. I found the people there down-to-earth and honest. I think you will, too.”

  “I really want to see New York one day,” T’Challa said.

  His father nodded. “Chicago is cold, T’Challa, but New York can be even colder if one does not find his or her way. I’m sure you’ll do well in the Windy City. Plus, the African Embassy of Nations knows who we are, and is making accommodations as we speak. You’ll be in good hands.”

  “But what about this threat?” T’Challa challenged him. “I should be here. By your side…in case of war.”

  “A son’s duty is to obey his father,” the king said.

  “What about Hunter?” T’Challa persisted. “He’s staying. Why can’t—”

  “Hunter is not in line for the throne. He doesn’t carry the blood of the Panther Tribe. You know this, T’Challa.”

  T’Challa studied his feet.

  When the fighting starts, I’ll be here by Father’s side, not running off to hide in America.

  “You have a different destiny, my son,” the king declared. “It will do you some good to be away. If you’re ever going to lead, you’ll need to understand the hopes and dreams of people from all walks of life, from all over the world. It will make you a better leader when it is your time to rule.”

&n
bsp; T’Challa looked up at his father. His face seemed to be carved from onyx, every angle sharp and prominent. It was a stern face, but one that could easily break into a smile—although it was a rare thing. Fortunately T’Challa had seen it several times. “What about these invaders?” he asked. “Did you find out more?”

  The king furrowed his brow. “I think it may be a man by the name of Ulysses Klaw, but I’m not certain. He is a rogue scientist, and has always wanted to get at our supply of Vibranium.”

  “Klaw,” T’Challa whispered. “Where is he from? Is that who the prisoner works for? What will you do to him?”

  The lines on the king’s forehead grew deeper. “The less you know, the safer you will be for now, T’Challa.”

  T’Challa sank down in his chair. He was always left out of the more interesting stuff in the kingdom—the intrigue and political maneuverings. Why did his father treat him like a child?

  “Now,” his father said, steepling his fingers together, “enough talk of troubles. Are you up for a game of chess? One last match?”

  “Sure,” T’Challa said, sitting up. “I choose black.”

  T’Challa heard the drumming first—a percussive boom boom boom, accented by bells, whistles, shakers, marimbas, and a balafon, an instrument similar to a xylophone. The music drifted up into a night sky filled with stars. This was more than just a tribal rhythm. It was rooted in the history of Wakanda—a song of the ancestors, and every note and chord had a meaning.

  T’Challa released a labored breath. All day, his stomach had been fluttering like a swarm of bees. The time had finally arrived.

  M’Baku stood next to him and swayed to the music. “Ready to party?” he asked.

  T’Challa nodded absently.

  “Hello?” M’Baku said.

  T’Challa was brought back to the moment. “Yes,” he said. “It’s time. Let’s do it.”

  “One for all and all for one, right?” M’Baku said.

  “Right,” T’Challa answered, as they made their way down into the gathered masses.

  The boys walked up a small hill, which looked down into a valley where the festivities were being held. Torches planted every few feet flickered orange in the dark. T’Challa felt the vibration of the music dance along his spine. A sea of people moved in an undulating rhythm—thousands of them, all in their traditional clothing, which made for a dazzling array of color—ruby red and emerald green, pure violet and lemony yellow. T’Challa stood and took it all in. Troubadours, jugglers, dancers, singers—even magicians came out to perform for the children in attendance. The Wakandan flag waved from every vantage point—a panther’s proud face on a field of red, black, and green.

  But amid the lavish display, T’Challa felt a sense of unease. He saw the preparations for a possible invasion in the fortifications of steel and concrete around the city entrances. Sharpshooters perched on soaring antenna towers. Squadrons of warriors patrolled the streets, and the number of Dora Milaje seemed to have doubled over the past few days.

  A storm of applause broke out when the crowd spotted T’Challa. He wanted to disappear. He’d asked his father if he could arrive in his own way, without fanfare, and the king reluctantly allowed it, but all the cheering still put him in the spotlight. Cries of “Prince!” and “Young Panther!” rang throughout the valley.

  M’Baku rolled his eyes, and as a new melody drifted out over the crowd, he pushed his friend into the throng. T’Challa quickly righted himself. He was not very good at dancing, but as several people circled him, he had no choice but to try his best. He felt awkward on his feet, which was strange, as he was usually one of the most physically capable boys in the kingdom. But this was dancing, something entirely alien to him. Still, for a few brief moments, his hesitation about his trip seemed to leave him.

  Until he saw a lone figure leaning against a column, smirking.

  Hunter shook his head. “Ah, the young prince is a good dancer,” he called.

  T’Challa broke away from the crowd and approached his stepbrother. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?”

  Hunter lifted his arms and gestured at the festivities held in T’Challa’s honor. “All this is for you, little brother. But you don’t deserve it. Kings do not run away.”

  Pinpricks stung the back of T’Challa’s neck. “I’m not running away. I’m only obeying my king.” He thought back to what his father had said: A son’s duty is to obey his father.

  Hunter shook his head very slowly, as if in disgust. “Call it what you like, but everyone knows what it really is. You’re afraid, T’Challa. Just admit it. You’ll feel better once you get it off your chest.”

  Anger welled up inside of T’Challa. He clenched his fists. He was tired of the insults.

  Hunter stood with his arms crossed. A few of his friends lurked behind him, as if they were his own private security force. “Perhaps you should get back to your dancing,” Hunter taunted him. “You know, stick to what you’re good at.”

  T’Challa snarled and dropped to a crouch, then spun on his heel, sweeping Hunter’s legs out from under him.

  Hunter shot back up and swung wildly, missing T’Challa by inches, giving the young prince the chance to drive his fist into Hunter’s stomach. The music trailed off, and the crowd began to sense the commotion as the two boys circled each other.

  T’Challa blew a breath through his nostrils and charged into Hunter, wrestling him to the ground. They were a tangle of arms and legs, kicking, punching. The crowd grew and began to shout.

  T’Challa spun out from under Hunter and quickly bounded to his feet. Hunter rose just as fast, ready for another strike.

  “Enough!”

  T’Challa froze.

  There was only one voice that strong, and T’Challa knew who it belonged to.

  He watched his father, the King of Wakanda, rise from his seat. He stood between two panther statues and crossed his arms. Silence fell immediately. Then, with a simple wave of his hand, the king called for the music to begin again.

  T’Challa and Hunter approached their father without having to be called, as if they were still children. Both boys were winded, their breaths coming in short bursts.

  The king looked at his sons with smoldering eyes. “You are too old for this,” he said. “I will have no more of it. Do you understand?”

  “He insulted me,” T’Challa spat out. “He—”

  The king raised his hand, and T’Challa bit back his anger.

  “Apologize to Hunter, T’Challa,” the king demanded.

  T’Challa couldn’t believe it. “I didn’t even start it!”

  A muscle along the hard edge of the king’s jaw twitched.

  T’Challa sighed, then turned and offered his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said curtly.

  The king looked to Hunter. “You are not blood. But you are bound by family. Apologize to your brother, Hunter.”

  Hunter looked as if he wanted to strangle T’Challa, but instead reached out a hand with fake sincerity. “Sorry, little brother. I was in the wrong. Please accept my apology.”

  T’Challa grasped his hand, and, as much as he wanted to crush it, gave it a firm grip instead. “Apology accepted,” he said.

  “Now,” the king said. “This is supposed to be a celebration. I want you both to enjoy the rest of the night. No more fighting. Understood? You must put on a good face for our people.”

  The boys traded venomous glances and turned to leave.

  “T’Challa,” the king called.

  T’Challa turned around, and his father nodded to a seat at his table, overflowing with food. Hunter gave one more withering glance and disappeared into the crowd. The Dora Milaje stood close by, like statues, but ones that could spring to life in an instant.

  The Black Panther sat down, and T’Challa joined him. For a long moment the king only stared at his son. “What happened?” he finally asked.

  T’Challa wanted to put it behind him, but the words fell from his mouth too quickly. “He say
s I’m a coward. That I’m running away to hide. He says that I should stay and fight.”

  He lowered his head and studied his hands.

  The king nodded. “Many men will try to battle you with words, T’Challa, but words cannot sway a man from his duty.”

  T’Challa sighed. His father always spoke in riddles. “So I should just ignore him, then?”

  “A wise man would,” the king answered. “You have a strong will and mind, but Hunter is rash. He doesn’t think ahead. That is why you will be king someday.”

  Hearing his father speak, T’Challa was reminded of his destiny. If he was going to be King of Wakanda one day, he had to act like it. “I will try my best, Father,” he said.

  The music was in full swing again, and the crowd was back to dancing and celebrating.

  “I have some things for your trip,” the king said, lightening the moment.

  He reached down to the side of his seat and pulled out a black box encrusted with gemstones. It clicked open on silent hinges. “Here are several things you will need if you are ever in an emergency.”

  T’Challa peered inside the velvet-lined box. At first he didn’t see anything, but after a moment, something seemed to shimmer like black mercury, with hints of silver running throughout it. Only one thing looks like that, he thought. But it can’t be. He wasn’t ready.

  His father reached in and pulled out a length of fabric that unfurled like a black wave. T’Challa’s eyes widened. It was a suit, just like his father’s. The suit of the Black Panther.

  The king noticed his son’s surprise. “It was made by a team of my most brilliant scientists. It doesn’t have all the properties of the one I wear, but still, it will protect you in an emergency.”

  “But I thought the suit was only to be worn by the ruling Black Panther,” T’Challa said in amazement. “What about the heart-shaped herb? Will I take that with me also?”