Black Panther

by Ronald L. Smith

  The king almost laughed. “No, my son. It will destroy your mind and body if you are not prepared.”

  T’Challa knew the heart-shaped herb was the last test one had to undertake to rise as the Black Panther. After several daunting tasks, the juices from the herb were applied to the candidate’s body, giving him superhuman strength, extrasensory skills, and the endurance to take on any foe.

  “That day will come,” his father explained. “But for now, I think we can make an exception, yes?” T’Chaka handed the suit to his son. The young prince took it reverently. The material was black and supple, stronger than leather and softer than silk.

  “It is lined with Vibranium,” T’Chaka said, “and will protect you from many dangers.”

  T’Challa felt hypnotized by the suit. It was one piece, and he was sure it would fit him like a glove. There was a mask, too, that he could wear over his eyes. He couldn’t wait to put it on.

  Something within the young prince began to take shape. It was a deep pull that he felt within his whole body, like a tide washing into shore. He had felt it before, and now he knew what it was—the call to adventure.

  “T’Challa?”

  T’Challa raised his head.

  “Do not wear it unless you are in an emergency. Do you understand?”

  T’Challa nodded absently, still mesmerized by the strange material.

  “Here,” his father said. “There is one more thing you should see.”

  He reached back within the box. T’Challa’s heart hammered. What else?

  The king handed him the object. It was a ring. A gleaming jewel sat in the center of it, like a cat’s eye.

  “I had this crafted especially for you, T’Challa. A Vibranium ring, a reminder of home.”

  T’Challa felt the weight of it in his palm and slipped it on his finger.

  “The ring will fit a true son of Wakanda,” his father said proudly. “And that is what you are.”

  T’Challa extended his fingers and looked admiringly at the ring, which sparkled in the torchlight.

  “Remember that, my young prince, always.”

  “I will, Father.”

  “T’Challa,” his father said, and his voice took on a grave tone. “Use the Panther suit only if there is no other choice. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Now, run and find M’Baku. Your plane leaves in the morning.”

  T’Challa studied the ring on his finger once more, then looked out at the crowd from the vantage point of his father’s table, set high above the celebration. A true son of Wakanda, he thought. That is who I am. I will lead these people one day, no matter what Hunter says.

  He made a vow never to forget it.

  T’Challa looked out from the plane’s window. The landscape was as vibrant as a painting. From this high up, he could still make out the glimmering spires and ornamental architecture of the Golden City.

  The plane was piloted by J’Aka, one of his father’s top advisors. It was a state-of-the-art machine equipped with so much technology it made the young prince’s head spin: infrared sensors, X-ray lasers, spotlights, gyroscopes, gun turrets, and high-tensile wire nets that could be released from a hatch to ensnare and capture enemies.

  The quiet motion of the plane put him at ease. Two flight attendants were there to cater to his every whim. All he had to do was push a button. On the tray next to him was a bottle of water from a Wakandan spring, and a phone/search device that would have been the envy of Silicon Valley if they’d known it existed. He leaned back and basked in the moment, realizing it might be a while before he could enjoy life’s little luxuries again.

  “Wake up.”

  T’Challa groggily opened his eyes but then closed them again.

  “T’Challa. We’re almost there. Wake up.”

  He sat up, completely unaware of where he was. M’Baku leaned over him, just inches from his face. T’Challa’s breath came short. Something was wrong. I can’t breathe!

  “Achooo!”

  “Got you!” M’Baku roared, as a peanut flew from T’Challa’s nostril.

  “Very funny,” T’Challa said. “I’m so glad you came along.” He tossed the peanut into the wastebasket next to him.

  “What would you do without me?” M’Baku asked.

  Breathe a little easier, T’Challa thought.

  M’Baku nudged T’Challa aside and looked through the window. “Look at all those cars,” he said. “I think I’ll buy one when we get there.”

  “With what money?” T’Challa teased, pushing him away. “How much did your father give you?”

  “Probably not enough,” M’Baku said. “But I can always get more from you, right?”

  T’Challa shook his head. M’Baku’s father was strict and wasn’t one to afford his son luxuries.

  T’Challa yawned and pressed his nose against the window. The blue ribbon of Chicago’s lakefront came into view, bordered by a massive highway. Cars as small as ants sped along it.

  “I think I’m going to do quite well here,” M’Baku said, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back against the leather headrest. “We’re from Wakanda. What does America have that we don’t?”

  His friend had a point. Wakanda led the world in science, physics, robotics, weapons research, and much more. But they were going to be strangers in a strange land. There would definitely be a steep learning curve. T’Challa closed his eyes again.

  Soon, they touched down at a private airfield. T’Challa assumed it was private, as there was no one else around except for an older man who greeted J’Aka as an old friend. From there, they were driven to the embassy.

  T’Challa’s father had set them up at the African Embassy of Nations on Michigan Avenue, right in the heart of the city. They were to take their dinners in their rooms, and the staff was not to speak of their visit. Every day, they would have to take a bus to school, to keep up appearances. After all, they couldn’t be dropped off in a limousine with tinted windows and an armed driver.

  J’Aka maneuvered the sleek black car along the highway as if he had done it a thousand times. T’Challa looked out of the window. At first, all he saw were fields and farms, but slowly, the traffic became more congested. Buildings rose up like wild things, steel and concrete towers wreathed in fog. It was different from Wakanda, T’Challa realized. There wasn’t enough green. The words concrete jungle came to mind.

  People were everywhere—walking on the streets, bundled up in big coats, heads tucked against the wind. T’Challa shivered. Just moments before, when they’d landed at the airfield, they were led through a tunnel to their car without even venturing into the open air, but he still felt the drop in temperature. He had to admit, he wasn’t looking forward to Chicago’s legendary cold.

  Finally, they arrived on a street where shops with lighted windows and artistic fashion displays lined both sides. “The Magnificent Mile,” J’Aka pointed out.

  M’Baku peered out the window. “I’ve heard of this,” he said. “This is where all the rich people shop!”

  T’Challa shook his head.

  The car passed a very plain-looking brick building nestled between two larger ones. “Here we are,” J’Aka announced. He parked in an underground garage and then led both boys to the lobby and front desk. He disappeared into the back with a man wearing a Bluetooth earpiece. T’Challa took a moment to look around. The ceiling was high, with several gleaming chandeliers, but the carpet was brown and a little soiled. The wooden furniture was old and unpolished. “Some embassy,” M’Baku groaned.

  A moment later, J’Aka returned. A young man wearing a cap and black suit followed him and piled their luggage onto a cart. He looked at T’Challa and M’Baku with curiosity.

  “The concierge will show you to your room, and then I will be on my way back,” J’Aka said. “Your father said to tell you one more time to be on your best behavior.” He looked at both boys. “Understood?”

  They both nodded. J’Aka shook their
hands, gave a small nod to T’Challa, then departed.

  The embassy room was small, with two beds, a tiny refrigerator, a smaller bathroom, and drab brown curtains.

  “We have to share a room?” M’Baku complained.

  “I don’t think we’re in Wakanda anymore,” T’Challa replied.

  M’Baku shook his head. “You’re a prince and you’re gonna live like this?”

  “Shh!” T’Challa whispered, and then knocked on a thin wall. “People could hear us. I have to remain secret, remember?”

  “Yeah,” said M’Baku, throwing his bag on the floor. “I hear you.”

  T’Challa found a safe in the closet and immediately came up with a combination, then tucked the box with his suit and ring inside. He looked around the room. One small window let in weak gray light.

  “Oh,” he heard M’Baku call with curiosity. “This is interesting.”

  T’Challa walked over to see what it was. M’Baku knelt on one knee next to an open cabinet under a small refrigerator. T’Challa lowered his head and looked inside. He smiled. It was a treasure trove of American snacks arranged in neat little rows: potato chips, chocolate, crackers, popcorn, nuts, chewing gum, more chocolate, and several things he didn’t even recognize.

  M’Baku raised an eyebrow. “Hungry?”

  Twenty minutes later both boys were spread out on their separate beds holding their stomachs. M’Baku had even eaten all the breath mints. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he groaned.

  T’Challa had eaten his fair share, too. Wakanda was not known for junk food, and both boys were hungry from their flight. His father would certainly not have approved. He lay back and put a hand over his stomach. “I think it was the extra candy bar that pushed me over the edge,” he said.

  And then he belched.

  A loud rattle sounded in his ears. He turned his head. M’Baku was already asleep, snoring like a rhino.

  BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP…

  T’Challa jumped up and peered around the room. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, until it all came rushing back to him.

  I’m in America.

  Chicago.

  I’m going to school here.

  M’Baku grimaced. “What in the name of the Panther God is that racket?”

  T’Challa followed the sound to a clock on the bedside table. The red digital numbers flashed 7:00 A.M. He knew he hadn’t set it. Someone from the embassy must have programmed it earlier. He hit the OFF button.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Who’s that?” M’Baku said warily.

  “I guess we better find out,” T’Challa replied.

  He got up and threw on one of the fluffy robes he’d retrieved from the closet. “Coming,” he called, pulling the robe around him.

  He opened the door as M’Baku ducked into the bathroom. T’Challa was met by a man in a black butler’s uniform standing behind a cart stacked with silver trays and pitchers of water and juice. “Breakfast is served, sirs.”

  T’Challa stepped aside, and the man rolled his cart onto the hardwood floor. As T’Challa watched, the man made a very slow display of uncovering every dish with a flourish. After he left, M’Baku came out of the bathroom with wet hair. “What is that?” he asked, rubbing a towel on his head.

  T’Challa lifted one of the round metal domes. “Breakfast?”

  M’Baku came closer, peering at the food. “What are Yummy Flakes?” he asked, pointing to a box displaying a smiling boy with a spoon in his mouth.

  T’Challa tore open the box and looked at the small flakes of what looked like shredded tree bark. “I don’t know,” he said, and popped a few pieces in his mouth. His face soured. “Yick,” he said.

  “Let me try it,” M’Baku offered.

  He took a handful, threw back his head and poured a bunch of flakes down his throat. He chewed for a second, considering, and then downed a glass of milk. “Not bad,” he said.

  T’Challa surveyed the tray again. He was confused. There were several round pieces of fried bread, but they had holes in the middle. Some were dark and some were light, and some were sprinkled with little colored dots. “Looks like they don’t have a very good bread maker here,” M’Baku said. “They can’t even make bread without putting a hole in it.”

  “I’ve seen these before,” T’Challa said. “It’s called a donut. I saw it in an American movie.”

  “Doe-what?” M’Baku asked skeptically.

  T’Challa picked one up. He took a bite and chewed. “Pretty good,” he said after a minute. “Tastes like chocolate.”

  M’Baku eyed a donut with sprinkles. “Here goes,” he said, and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth. He looked at T’Challa as he chewed, and then, with great effort, swallowed loudly. His face suddenly went pale. “Uh-oh,” he said.

  “What?” asked T’Challa.

  “My stomach hurts again.”

  A half hour later—after M’Baku had made several visits to the bathroom—the boys headed to the lobby. Men and women in business suits walked with purpose down the long corridors. People sat at tables in the lobby with their laptops open in front of them. T’Challa hadn’t made eye contact with anyone since they’d arrived. Everyone’s heads were buried in their phones.

  A man stood behind the counter tapping away at a keyboard. He looked up, and his eyes widened. “Ah, I see you’re ready for school. Was your room to your liking?”

  He must know who we are, T’Challa thought. “Yes,” he answered. “Thank you.”

  The man, whose glasses rested on his nose, turned to M’Baku. “Are you okay, young man?”

  M’Baku swallowed. “Yeah. I…um…had too much sweet stuff.”

  The man nodded. “I see. Well, the snack bar is refilled every night, but you don’t have to eat it all.” He leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. “I do understand the temptation, though.”

  M’Baku didn’t answer, just slowly bobbed his head. T’Challa couldn’t help but snicker.

  “Now,” the concierge said, straightening back up and pointing over the boys’ heads. “Through the revolving door and then across the street. You’ll want the number 134 bus to the South Side.” He clacked on his computer, and two small cards slid out of a black box. “These are bus passes. They’re loaded up with fare money to get you around the city. Let me know when they run short.”

  He slid the cards across the smooth counter.

  “Dinner will be served in your room at seven p.m. every night. If you need anything at all, just let me know.” He pointed to his name tag.

  T’Challa leaned in. “Thank you, Clarence,” he said.

  M’Baku groaned, but still managed a half smile.

  “I hope we didn’t miss the bus,” T’Challa said, rubbing his arms and craning his neck to see down the street. He shivered. Neither one of the boys had winter coats. How could someone have forgotten to get them coats? Perhaps Clarence at the embassy could give them some. They certainly wouldn’t be able to make it through the Chicago winter without them.

  Michigan Avenue was a bustle of activity. Buses, cars, motorcycles, pedestrians, bicycles—T’Challa even saw a kid on a skateboard—all fought for the fastest and least-congested lanes and sidewalks. M’Baku looked up at one of the tallest buildings, its pinnacle lost in white fog. “Well,” he said. “It’s definitely a big city, but Wakanda is more…” He paused, searching for the right word.

  “Captivating?” T’Challa ventured.

  “Exactly,” M’Baku answered. “Captivating.”

  That was the right word, T’Challa realized. Even though Chicago was big, it couldn’t match the grand elegance of Wakanda, with its dazzling architecture and unique culture. For a brief moment, he thought of his father. Does he miss me yet? Or is his mind occupied with the possible threat from Ulysses Klaw?

  T’Challa looked down the street again. He did a double take.

  There, in the center of all the rushing pedestrians on the sidewalk, a man was standing completely sti
ll. He stood out because of his height, and the military beret he wore did nothing to make him blend in.

  And he was looking directly at T’Challa.

  He reached out to nudge M’Baku, but his attention was startled by a creaking, groaning sound. A blue-and-white city bus with the number 134 pulsing in a weak orange light above the massive windshield was headed in his direction.

  “That must be for us,” M’Baku said.

  The bus pulled up to the curb and released a hiss. A door flew open. T’Challa glanced down the street again, but the man had vanished. He placed his foot on the little step, and was immediately jostled and bumped by a horde of people getting off. They looked at him with annoyed faces.

  “Great,” said M’Baku.

  The boys took a step back and waited as passengers got off, then made their way onto the bus. T’Challa took out the card Clarence had given him and handed it to the bus driver.

  The driver, a big man with a beard, looked at T’Challa and raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you, young man?”

  “Yes,” T’Challa replied. “We’re going to South Side Middle School. I think this card has our bus money on it.”

  The man closed his eyes and then opened them again slowly.

  “Son,” he said, “touch the card against the reader.”

  T’Challa looked down and saw a round column with a flat surface on top.

  “What’s the holdup?” M’Baku complained behind him, peeking over T’Challa’s shoulder.

  T’Challa placed the card on the reader.

  BEEP.

  “There you go,” the driver said.

  T’Challa turned to find a seat. Everyone on the bus was staring at him. He gulped. Fortunately for M’Baku, T’Challa had already embarrassed himself trying to pay his fare, so he didn’t have to suffer the same fate.

  Men and women in business suits stood in the aisle, their attention now back to their cell phones. It seemed that every seat was taken, either by a person, a bookbag, or a briefcase. T’Challa noticed several kids his age, fiddling with their phones and not talking to each other.

  M’Baku was the first one to find a seat, and sat next to a girl wearing headphones who only stared out of the window. T’Challa looked left and right as he continued down the aisle. The bus came to a stop and he flew forward, barely righting himself. As he did, he saw that the seat in front of him was empty. “Is this seat available?” he asked.