Black Panther

by Ronald L. Smith

  “Who do you think he is?” M’Baku asked again. “That man.”

  “I don’t know,” T’Challa replied. “That’s why we need to be careful. He could be an enemy of my father’s.”

  “Why do you think your father has so many enemies?”

  It was a good question, T’Challa realized, and one he had never stopped to ask himself. “I suppose there are a lot of criminals out there that want to get at Wakanda’s…you know.”

  “Vibranium,” M’Baku whispered.

  “Right. And maybe if they got to me they could get to him. For ransom, or something.”

  M’Baku nodded and leaned back in his seat.

  “We need to stay close to the embassy,” T’Challa said quietly. “We need to be careful.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” M’Baku teased. “Gotta keep the mighty prince safe.”

  T’Challa shot him a look. He wasn’t in the mood for M’Baku’s joking taunts.

  T’Challa took the exit stairwell and headed up the steps, away from M’Baku, who was asleep in their room after gorging himself on room service ice cream. There were nine floors in the embassy, and he was going to the very top. Hopefully, there would be a way onto the roof.

  A few minutes later, he was standing in front of a green door in the dimly lit stairwell. He turned the handle: locked. A window to his left was closed by rusty hinges. He turned one of them, and the small red flakes fell away and onto the sill. He turned the other, and then slid the window up.

  He stuck his head through. A cold blast of air greeted him and stung his cheeks. A fire-escape ladder on his right was positioned along the brick-and-steel wall. T’Challa let out a breath, reached across with his left arm, grasped the closest rung, and swung himself over to grab the other with his right. He then climbed up to the top of the roof.

  He didn’t have to go to such lengths, but something spurred him on. It felt a little dangerous. And, he had to admit, he missed those moments in Wakanda where he and M’Baku pushed themselves as far as they could.

  The lights of Michigan Avenue glittered below him. He heard car horns and the hum of traffic. The night air was cool on his face. He tapped a bead on his Kiyomo Bracelet. A moment later, a screen appeared and hung in midair, his father’s face projected upon it.

  “Son,” his father said.

  “Father,” said T’Challa. “How are you? How is the kingdom? Has there been any—”

  “All is well at the moment,” the king said. He rubbed his brow. “There was a small skirmish on the outskirts of the city, but we have driven the invaders back.”

  T’Challa was not convinced. His father’s face was drawn. He looked tired.

  “But how are you, T’Challa?” his father asked. “Are you and M’Baku staying safe?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But you know M’Baku. Always wanting to stir things up.”

  “Keep an eye on him. If anything happened to him, his father would never forgive me.”

  T’Challa thought that a little funny—his father being concerned with what one of his citizens thought of him. He was the king, and could do whatever he wished without consequence. But he still had a conscience. That was why people swore allegiance to him. He was a fair man, and a wise king.

  There was something else T’Challa wanted to ask. He took a breath. “What about Hunter?”

  The king drew back from the screen just a bit. He hesitated a moment before speaking. “I have given Hunter a very important position. Something that will help us keep the country safe.”

  T’Challa felt a stab of jealousy. “What is it?” he asked.

  “I have started a security force. It is called the Hatut Zeraze.”

  “Dogs of War,” T’Challa translated from Wakandan.

  “You know Hunter is a great tracker, T’Challa. Even at his age. He’s training young recruits in the art of stealth and maneuvers, just in case.…”

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

  T’Challa’s face fell.

  “Do not think of it as a slight, son,” the king assured him. “Hunter is older, and he has a strong, if quick-to-act, mind. I can smooth that out. With time.”

  Say whatever you like, little brother. But while you’re away, I’ll keep your royal seat warm for you.

  “T’Challa,” the king said. “When you get back, you can work together. You and your brother, keeping Wakanda safe from invaders.”

  T’Challa feigned a smile. “Sure, Father. I will look forward to that.”

  There was a moment of silence. T’Challa couldn’t think of what to say.

  “How is the school?” his father finally asked. “How is Chicago?”

  “It’s okay,” T’Challa replied, his thoughts still on Hunter.

  “Good,” his father said. He turned his head, leaving his face in profile on the screen. He nodded, as if someone was speaking to him. He turned his attention back to his son. “I must go, T’Challa. Take care of yourself, and if there is anything to report, I will be in touch.”

  And just like that, the screen winked out.

  T’Challa looked out at the Chicago night. Hunter’s face flashed through his mind. He saw him wearing a crisp uniform, complete with the Wakandan colors, and gaining his father’s favor.

  The Hatut Zeraze. A secret police force. Why would Father give him such power?

  Hunter would surely try to boss him around when he got back to Wakanda.

  I won’t let him, T’Challa promised himself. If he tries to order me around, he’ll be in for a surprise.

  T’Challa walked down the hallway, his thoughts still on Hunter and the conversation he had with his father. It had burned at him all night, and he still couldn’t let it go. It was jealousy, plain and simple, but he didn’t want to admit it.

  He passed the spot in the hallway where the bundle of sticks had been placed. The buzz about it had died down, but it still stuck in his mind. There was something odd about it. Something strange. It was intentional, and was meant to make some kind of statement, but what that statement was, T’Challa didn’t know. He almost tapped his Kiyomo Bracelet to set a reminder to look it up when he was alone, but suddenly remembered he couldn’t do that here.

  T’Challa entered the gym and breathed in the familiar aroma of dirty socks. The sound of balls hitting the hardwood floor was as loud as cannons. Above the noise, T’Challa heard several boys boasting:

  I got mad skills!

  You ain’t got no game!

  You play like your mama!

  T’Challa definitely wasn’t looking forward to P.E.

  Today they’d be playing basketball, a sport T’Challa knew little about. M’Baku, on the other hand, was excited. In Wakanda, he had watched the Chicago Bulls play several times on old video files, and marveled at the players during the golden era of Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen. A few other boys shared his passion, and they played often. T’Challa was not one of them. He was more interested in individual sports, like archery, climbing, and swimming—ones where the only person you had to beat was yourself.

  T’Challa surveyed the scene around him. Gemini Jones, Deshawn, and Bicep were there in the crowd, flexing muscles and taunting other students, until Coach Blevins’s whistle rang throughout the gym.

  “All right,” he called out. “Two teams. Red and white. Pick your own sides.”

  Everyone scrambled to a large cardboard box in the center of the gym. For a moment, T’Challa didn’t know what was happening until several jerseys were pulled out. He walked over and picked up a white jersey from the floor. M’Baku chose red.

  A few minutes later, after much pushing and shoving, which was only quieted by the intervention of Mr. Blevins, the teams were assembled. “Ah,” M’Baku said, eyeing the jersey in T’Challa’s hand. “Prepare to lose.”

  T’Challa smirked and pulled the white jersey over his T-shirt.

  Gemini Jones and his friends were on M’Baku’s team.

 
; “Okay,” Mr. Blevins said. “You all know the rules. No fouling and no elbows. Jump ball!”

  The ball went up in the air and was retrieved by a tall boy on T’Challa’s team. T’Challa didn’t even know what position he was playing. Suddenly, the ball was flying in his direction. Someone had passed it to him. He threw out his arms in a reflex motion and caught it. It felt unfamiliar in his hands, like a large stone or a giant cake. He let it drop to the floor to dribble and…

  Tweeeeeeeetttt!!!

  Coach Blevins blew his whistle. “That’s what we call a double dribble, Mr. Charles. And I’m pretty sure I caught a little traveling in there, too.”

  T’Challa didn’t even know what he had done wrong.

  The ball was passed in to M’Baku, who stood at the edge of the court. He bounced it a few times, walking, and then took off at a run. T’Challa was amazed. He seemed like he was born for it, a natural. He crossed the ball through his legs, spun away from an opposing player, then charged toward the net. He jumped and…

  Swish.

  Cheers went up from his teammates.

  Coach Blevins nodded in approval. “Looks like we’ve got a new point guard.” A few players clapped M’Baku on the back. Gemini Jones was one of them. “Not bad, Africa,” he said.

  M’Baku raised his hand for a high five, which Gemini returned.

  Later that day, T’Challa sat in Study Hall and pondered a chess move. He tapped his finger on the carved wooden knight, one of his favorite pieces. He was distracted. After the basketball game in P.E., M’Baku had hung back with Gemini and his friends, laughing and joking. What was that all about? T’Challa wondered.

  “Your move,” Zeke said, moving his queen.

  T’Challa immediately pounced and captured with his knight.

  “What the—?” Zeke moaned, leaning in and staring at the board. “How’d you do that?”

  “Like this,” T’Challa said and made the move again.

  Zeke shook his head. He brushed a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Want to play again?” he asked.

  T’Challa checked his watch.

  Zeke’s brown eyes grew as wide as saucers. “Hey,” he said. “Let me see that.” T’Challa had been so concerned with not revealing the true nature of his Kiyomo Bracelet that he’d forgotten that his watch was even more unusual. It didn’t look like an ordinary watch. It was a silver cuff about two inches wide, with an opaque black screen embedded into the surface.

  T’Challa hesitated. He pushed up his sweater and thrust out his arm.

  Zeke nudged his glasses up and stared at the device on T’Challa’s wrist. “Where’s the numbers?” he asked, perplexed. “I mean, I don’t see anything.”

  T’Challa peered around the room. They were at a corner table, in the back. He laid the tip of his index finger against the glossy black surface. For a moment nothing happened, but then, the screen burst into color with swirling numerals and symbols. Zeke looked on in amazement as a small three-dimensional projection rose in the air, showing the time and date. The letters and numbers looked solid, as if they could be picked up. Zeke reached out a tentative hand.

  T’Challa swiped his hand through the image, which then vanished.

  Zeke’s mouth hung open. “Where in the heck did you get that?”

  T’Challa paused and looked around. Thankfully no one else had seen his little display of Wakandan tech. “I had it custom-made.”

  Zeke raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Custom-made? Where?”

  T’Challa cursed himself. What was he thinking? “Back home,” he said. “I had it made in Kenya.”

  “Hmpf,” Zeke said. “Interesting.”

  T’Challa swallowed hard, and promised himself to be more careful in the future.

  T’Challa watched in fascination as his breath steamed in the air. It was cold out, but he and his friends wanted to get away from the noise in the cafeteria, so they sat outside on the bleachers that surrounded the football field. Zeke was reading one of his graphic novels, turning the pages silently, only pausing now and then to take a loud slurp through a straw, while Sheila sat nearby, fiddling with a small square cube of different colors.

  “What’s that?” T’Challa asked her.

  “Some ancient toy,” Zeke said, without looking up.

  Sheila’s hands moved quickly, almost in a blur. “Just because you can’t figure it out doesn’t mean it’s dumb,” she replied.

  T’Challa heard a resounding click. Sheila held up the small box. “It’s called a Rubik’s Cube.”

  “Can I see it?” T’Challa asked.

  Sheila handed it to him.

  T’Challa began to turn the sides of the square, clockwise and back.

  “You have to get all the sides to match the same color,” Sheila explained.

  T’Challa cocked his head and went back at it.

  “I could tell you the solution,” Sheila taunted, “but that would take all the fun out of it.”

  T’Challa continued to turn and click the cube. “Ah,” he said. “I see.…”

  Loud shouting interrupted his concentration. He turned toward the outdoor basketball court. As cold as it was, a basketball game was being played, and Gemini Jones was dribbling the ball, playing aggressively and bumping into players. T’Challa watched M’Baku elbow his way through a player and slam the ball into the net.

  “Nice!” Deshawn said.

  Zeke looked up from his book. “Looks like Marcus found some new friends,” he said quietly.

  T’Challa was silent a moment. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Looks that way.”

  “I’m not into basketball,” Zeke said. “I mean, I don’t get sports. Especially football. Why would people want to crash into each other like that?”

  But T’Challa didn’t really hear him. He was looking at M’Baku, who seemed to be having the time of his life.

  Later that day, on the bus ride home, T’Challa nudged M’Baku. “So you’re really into basketball, huh?”

  M’Baku turned in his seat. “Yeah, the coach says I’d make a good point guard.”

  T’Challa nodded, even though he didn’t know what a point guard was. “So, you like hanging out with Gemini and his friends?”

  “They’re okay once you get to know ’em. They get respect, you know?”

  “Respect?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want people to think I’m just some exchange student from Africa. And since I can’t tell anybody where I’m really from, I’m gonna make sure I get the respect I deserve.”

  T’Challa angled his head. This was just like M’Baku. Always concerned with what others thought of him. “So what are you gonna do?”

  M’Baku shrugged. “I don’t know. You can hang out with those nerds if you want to, but once I get on the team, I’m gonna change things up a little.”

  T’Challa narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with Zeke and Sheila?”

  “Gemini said they’re losers. He said you need to hang out with the right people at South Side Middle.”

  T’Challa couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The bus came to a stop and more passengers boarded. “So you’re going to let other people tell you what to do?”

  M’Baku didn’t answer.

  “Well,” T’Challa finally said, breaking the silence, “Zeke and Sheila are okay in my book. It’s not fair to call them nerds.”

  M’Baku gave a little smirk. “Whoever said life was fair, T’Challa?”

  T’Challa opened his mouth in surprise but then closed it again. The bus hit a pothole and he bounced in his seat.

  “See,” M’Baku started, “you don’t have to worry about stuff like that. You can get whatever you want, whenever you want. You’re a prince, T’Challa. You were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. The rest of us have to earn it.”

  M’Baku turned away and looked out of the window.

  They didn’t speak for the rest of the way back.

  The posters were all over the school the next morning—
in the cafeteria, the classrooms, even in the restrooms. There was no avoiding them:

  SOUTH SIDE MIDDLE SCHOOL TALENT SHOW

  Think you’re a superstar?

  Bring it!

  Show us your best self and you could win school supplies and movie passes!

  Zeke and T’Challa stared at the yellow-and-green posters in the hallway. “What do you think?” Zeke asked. “Maybe we can have a chess tournament?”

  “I don’t think that’d be too exciting,” T’Challa confessed.

  “Well, maybe you could do a wrestling demonstration,” Zeke suggested.

  T’Challa thought about that. “I don’t know,” he said. “What about you? What other hobbies do you have?”

  Zeke chewed his lip. “Well, I like to read a lot.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to work, either,” T’Challa said.

  “I know what I’m going to do.” A voice sounded behind them. T’Challa turned around to see Sheila. She was carrying a small silver briefcase. “I’m going to do a science experiment.”

  “What kind of science experiment?” T’Challa asked.

  “Well,” said Sheila. “I’m going to make fog in the auditorium.”

  “Fog?” Zeke repeated. “How?”

  “It’s really not that difficult,” Sheila said. “All I need are the right elements.”

  “Good luck with that,” Zeke teased.

  “Well, what’s your special talent?” Sheila rounded on him. “Being a dork?”

  “I know you are, but what am I?” Zeke shot back.

  “I know you are,” Sheila countered.

  T’Challa whipped his head back and forth as they continued to chatter.

  T’Challa had been so busy with things he had forgotten about his own science project. The teacher, Mr. Bellweather, had requested the assignment on his first day. He needed an idea. Fortunately, one came to him quickly.