“J
ust bury me in the ocean, with my ancestors that jumped from the ships, 'cause they knew death was better than bondage.” He slowly took hold of the dagger that pierced his chest and attempted to put it out, to free himself of the pain of freedom and the price he had to pay to keep it. With what should have been his last breath, he pulled, however, T’Challa had other plans…
Six months passed since the Battle of Wakanda and his defeat at the hands of Black Panther. In that time, Erik Killmonger sat in silence in one of Wakanda’s glass-plated, vibranium-laced cells, eyes piercing darkness sharper than any Panther claw could hope to. Knuckles popped as he shuffled fingers within interlocked grasps. He grunted deeply, rumbling more like a low roar than actual breathing — now more than ever, he’d felt like an animal trapped in a system by his own people.
The thought of it disgusted him to near stomach-churning anger. They’d lost their way; prior to colonization and slavery, they were kings, Pharaohs and far ahead of the rest of the world in progression. Since then, they’d grown complacent with their choices and it metastasized like a cancer, soon infecting the rest of their kind. They’d rather live in comfortable complacency than step forward [ or was it back? ] into the light they once reigned in. Rather than seen as a King, he was shunned like a pawn, forced to live in a cage he sought to free them from.
Disgusting.
Heavy, synchronized boots filled the lone room as the King and his Dora Milaje walked in formation, guarding him and protecting his every step. Erik knew the sound of it all too well. It reminded him of when they were loyal to him, before their betrayal.
“You’re new,” he said eying one specific guard from the rest as they stopped before his cell. She was a shade lighter than the rest and her head was even lighter. Her uniform was brighter than the rest, as well, still new and barely worn. Evidence she hadn’t been a guard for very long and, by his guess, hadn’t had much experience. “Guess you had a new spot to fill,” he said letting his gaze linger on her. “They tell you what happened to the last one?” She, stoic as her training had taught her to be, showed no emotion. Or at least she tried. “What’s your name?” Erik stared longer until he was able to make out the slightest hint of a glimmer in her eye.
He’d seen enough. He turned his attention to his cousin, the King. The daggers he stared nearly made the vibranium casing whine against its blades. Every second he was in his presence reminded him of everything he took from him: his Kingdom, his family, his suit, his death…
“So, wassup?” He asked tilting his head back, offering as little eye contact as he could. “You come here to gloat? Won’t let me die in peace so you keep me alive as your little trophy?”
“I came here,” T’Challa said approaching the glass that separated them. “To inform you of the recent developments.” Erik couldn’t be bothered to listen, but in this instance he didn’t have much of a choice. “A press conference was held, N’Jadaka. Wakanda will be extending its resources with the rest of the world.” He paused as Erik craned his head down to meet him eye to eye. “You were right. It is time we stop hiding.”
“So, that’s it.” Erik grumbled. “You kept me alive just to tell me there ain’t gon’ be no change? Figures.”
“No, there will be a change, but only done the right way — equally.”
“Don’t try that shit with me. You know damn well you put your resources out there for the rest of the world, you’ll only keep the same statues quo; if everyone gets the resources, no one does.” His conviction cut like a knife. It was becoming more and more apparent that vibranium reinforced cells were the best idea. “You need to give that shit to the people who really need it. You do that, our people can finally catch up to the rest of the world — THAT is how you spread equally.”
“No, that is how you spread hate and separation further,” T’Challa said causing Erik to scoff. Nearly dismissing him all together, he looked down to his side, shunning away the King. “If we allocate our resources to only one segment of the population, the others will grow envious and deepen what rifts already exist within those communities. A rising tide lifts all ships, N’Jadaka. That is true progress.”
“You think that matters? You think the slave traders gave a damn about what everyone else had? You think they cared about we’d ‘feel’?” Erik let his words seep in. There was only so much that his cell could keep withheld from him. “Let em be mad, all that anger ain’t gon’ mean shit when we give our vibranium to our people. Let them know how it feels to be powerless.”
“We cannot allow past transgressions rule our futures. If we are to truly move forward, united, we must all benefit from the good. People of all kinds are suffering, now, N’Jadaka. No more oppression or oppressors. Those days are behind us and we must keep them there if we are to—”
“—What’d you just say to me!?” Erik shot up from his seat and charged his way over to the glass. Instinctively, the Dora Milaje tightened their grips on their spears and stood in an offensive stance should anything happen. T’Challa, however, was unfazed. He wouldn’t even flinch at his approach. “‘Those days are over’?” Now close enough so that his breath fogged up the glass, Erik had a look identical to the one he had when they fought on Warrior Falls.
He’d bare his teeth much like a real panther and roar even louder. “It’s that kinda thinking that keeps us in the dark ages, T’Challa. How you gon’ stand here and spit and my face by saying some shit like that? This is why you ain’t no real king — how you gon’ help the world when you ain’t never lived in it?”
“You think it’s over?” Erik went on. “They still givin’ us looks. Our people live in fear everyday for being killed, for doing the right thing! Got people who get shot in killed in their own homes by ‘the authorities’ with no justice being done. Kids being killed for wearing hoods and nothing amounts to it except fifteen minutes of fame.” Erik’s chest rose and fell like an angry bull’s. He was set to charge again.
“They copy our culture, our hair, our names, our dances — and then get mad when we have a problem with it. The same people that forced us to make and build their country are telling us to go back to ours, after having reaped the benefits of it. We ain’t had nothin’ but still evolved from it. We bettered ourselves and we still aren’t equal…”
For a moment, Erik paused looking through T’Challa. He was a ravenous, passionate Panther that no cage could keep down. However, there was something that donned on him. “But talking to you is a waste of breath, isn’t it? You wouldn’t know nothin’ about that shit, would you? Born and raised in royalty all your life.”
“What you know about having to change your name to fit into society? To fit into a society you were forced to be in? What do you know about having your entire life, your heritage, your religion stolen from you only to have to pay someone to get it back?”
The truth of his past, and his peoples’ alike, made his blood boil, doubly so when the one responsible for hindering such progress was the one who locked him up. He’d felt the stares of an unloving society, the judgmental questions to those who had the luxury of not having to live like he had. A stare identical to the one T’Challa gave him now. “We ain’t never had no king grown’ up. Only ‘King’ we knew got shot down fighting the same fight I’m fighting now!”
“You got mountains of Vibranium at your disposal and you’re gonna do what with it? Y’all up here are fine, while the rest of us gotta live under the leadership of a man who often disregards and insults us and our heritage. The ‘shithole’ country you pretend to live in is what he thinks we all are…” Again, T’Challa stayed silent, stoically watching Erik in his cell. “Oh, wait,” he slowed his speech. “That’s right. These people are, what’d you call it? ’Not your own’?”
A loud slam reverberated throughout the hollow halls followed by a synchronized symphony of metallic scraping on stone, a firm forearm slammed against his glass responded to by the Dora Milaje’s dutiful attention to Erik. In doing so, the prison garbs he was dressed in loosened and his sleeve fell down to his elbow exposing his many scarification marks. T’Challa had seen them exposed before in their many times in combat, but he noticed her again. That same, new Dora Milaje take a looking to them. A side glance was all he gave her, but the invitation had been opened.
“You’ve seen em before, all over your country you got people with scars just like mine, but theirs are a sign of beauty and dignity. A sign of respect. Mine are different.” He trailed off to look at his forearm and the countless marks on it. He had collected so many he’d lost count. “For every body that fell,” he began.
“For every heart that stopped beating. For every life I took, I have a scar, but now I guess I should start adding our brothers and sisters out there that keep getting killed because of your inaction. Least this way they’ll be remembered longer than a trending topic.” He returned his glare to T’Challa, peering over his forearm and through his brow. “So, tell me, cousin, how are you gonna fix this, because I’m starting to run out of room.”
The silence between them was crippling. Erik’s words were just as damning as the quiet they’d resonate in. With a glare that threatened to crack the glass between them, he watched as T’Challa then gave the order for he and the Dora Milaje to be taken away. Through the darkness, Erik stared as they walked off, but noticed that one lone, new guard turn back around to look at her former king and nodded…
Six months passed since the Battle of Wakanda and his defeat at the hands of Black Panther. In that time, Erik Killmonger sat in silence in one of Wakanda’s glass-plated, vibranium-laced cells, eyes piercing darkness sharper than any Panther claw could hope to. Knuckles popped as he shuffled fingers within interlocked grasps. He grunted deeply, rumbling more like a low roar than actual breathing — now more than ever, he’d felt like an animal trapped in a system by his own people.
The thought of it disgusted him to near stomach-churning anger. They’d lost their way; prior to colonization and slavery, they were kings, Pharaohs and far ahead of the rest of the world in progression. Since then, they’d grown complacent with their choices and it metastasized like a cancer, soon infecting the rest of their kind. They’d rather live in comfortable complacency than step forward [ or was it back? ] into the light they once reigned in. Rather than seen as a King, he was shunned like a pawn, forced to live in a cage he sought to free them from.
Disgusting.
Heavy, synchronized boots filled the lone room as the King and his Dora Milaje walked in formation, guarding him and protecting his every step. Erik knew the sound of it all too well. It reminded him of when they were loyal to him, before their betrayal.
“You’re new,” he said eying one specific guard from the rest as they stopped before his cell. She was a shade lighter than the rest and her head was even lighter. Her uniform was brighter than the rest, as well, still new and barely worn. Evidence she hadn’t been a guard for very long and, by his guess, hadn’t had much experience. “Guess you had a new spot to fill,” he said letting his gaze linger on her. “They tell you what happened to the last one?” She, stoic as her training had taught her to be, showed no emotion. Or at least she tried. “What’s your name?” Erik stared longer until he was able to make out the slightest hint of a glimmer in her eye.
He’d seen enough. He turned his attention to his cousin, the King. The daggers he stared nearly made the vibranium casing whine against its blades. Every second he was in his presence reminded him of everything he took from him: his Kingdom, his family, his suit, his death…
“So, wassup?” He asked tilting his head back, offering as little eye contact as he could. “You come here to gloat? Won’t let me die in peace so you keep me alive as your little trophy?”
“I came here,” T’Challa said approaching the glass that separated them. “To inform you of the recent developments.” Erik couldn’t be bothered to listen, but in this instance he didn’t have much of a choice. “A press conference was held, N’Jadaka. Wakanda will be extending its resources with the rest of the world.” He paused as Erik craned his head down to meet him eye to eye. “You were right. It is time we stop hiding.”
“So, that’s it.” Erik grumbled. “You kept me alive just to tell me there ain’t gon’ be no change? Figures.”
“No, there will be a change, but only done the right way — equally.”
“No, that is how you spread hate and separation further,” T’Challa said causing Erik to scoff. Nearly dismissing him all together, he looked down to his side, shunning away the King. “If we allocate our resources to only one segment of the population, the others will grow envious and deepen what rifts already exist within those communities. A rising tide lifts all ships, N’Jadaka. That is true progress.”
“You think that matters? You think the slave traders gave a damn about what everyone else had? You think they cared about we’d ‘feel’?” Erik let his words seep in. There was only so much that his cell could keep withheld from him. “Let em be mad, all that anger ain’t gon’ mean shit when we give our vibranium to our people. Let them know how it feels to be powerless.”
“We cannot allow past transgressions rule our futures. If we are to truly move forward, united, we must all benefit from the good. People of all kinds are suffering, now, N’Jadaka. No more oppression or oppressors. Those days are behind us and we must keep them there if we are to—”
He’d bare his teeth much like a real panther and roar even louder. “It’s that kinda thinking that keeps us in the dark ages, T’Challa. How you gon’ stand here and spit and my face by saying some shit like that? This is why you ain’t no real king — how you gon’ help the world when you ain’t never lived in it?”
“You think it’s over?” Erik went on. “They still givin’ us looks. Our people live in fear everyday for being killed, for doing the right thing! Got people who get shot in killed in their own homes by ‘the authorities’ with no justice being done. Kids being killed for wearing hoods and nothing amounts to it except fifteen minutes of fame.” Erik’s chest rose and fell like an angry bull’s. He was set to charge again.
“They copy our culture, our hair, our names, our dances — and then get mad when we have a problem with it. The same people that forced us to make and build their country are telling us to go back to ours, after having reaped the benefits of it. We ain’t had nothin’ but still evolved from it. We bettered ourselves and we still aren’t equal…”
For a moment, Erik paused looking through T’Challa. He was a ravenous, passionate Panther that no cage could keep down. However, there was something that donned on him. “But talking to you is a waste of breath, isn’t it? You wouldn’t know nothin’ about that shit, would you? Born and raised in royalty all your life.”
The truth of his past, and his peoples’ alike, made his blood boil, doubly so when the one responsible for hindering such progress was the one who locked him up. He’d felt the stares of an unloving society, the judgmental questions to those who had the luxury of not having to live like he had. A stare identical to the one T’Challa gave him now. “We ain’t never had no king grown’ up. Only ‘King’ we knew got shot down fighting the same fight I’m fighting now!”
“You got mountains of Vibranium at your disposal and you’re gonna do what with it? Y’all up here are fine, while the rest of us gotta live under the leadership of a man who often disregards and insults us and our heritage. The ‘shithole’ country you pretend to live in is what he thinks we all are…” Again, T’Challa stayed silent, stoically watching Erik in his cell. “Oh, wait,” he slowed his speech. “That’s right. These people are, what’d you call it? ’Not your own’?”
A loud slam reverberated throughout the hollow halls followed by a synchronized symphony of metallic scraping on stone, a firm forearm slammed against his glass responded to by the Dora Milaje’s dutiful attention to Erik. In doing so, the prison garbs he was dressed in loosened and his sleeve fell down to his elbow exposing his many scarification marks. T’Challa had seen them exposed before in their many times in combat, but he noticed her again. That same, new Dora Milaje take a looking to them. A side glance was all he gave her, but the invitation had been opened.
“For every heart that stopped beating. For every life I took, I have a scar, but now I guess I should start adding our brothers and sisters out there that keep getting killed because of your inaction. Least this way they’ll be remembered longer than a trending topic.” He returned his glare to T’Challa, peering over his forearm and through his brow. “So, tell me, cousin, how are you gonna fix this, because I’m starting to run out of room.”
The silence between them was crippling. Erik’s words were just as damning as the quiet they’d resonate in. With a glare that threatened to crack the glass between them, he watched as T’Challa then gave the order for he and the Dora Milaje to be taken away. Through the darkness, Erik stared as they walked off, but noticed that one lone, new guard turn back around to look at her former king and nodded…
