Storm, page 16
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe. “Do you think other kings who did walkabouts came to this very lake as well? Are you following in their exact footsteps?”
“I do not know,” he mumbles, taking our packs off the back of the bike. “I will not know what others did until I become king.”
As the sun heads home for the evening, we set up camp and practice near the edge of the lake. It is a different type of hot out here. Egypt can blaze, but the humidity in this part of Ethiopia makes it feel like the heat is frying every organ I have. Even in the pitch-black night, my clothes stick to me like a second skin.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say after we finish our dinner of fresh catfish plucked right out of the water. “Once you take this special herb after you win the challenge day, you’ll officially be the Black Panther and you’ll be superhuman…like me?”
“Well,” he says slowly, “not exactly like you.” He gazes into my eyes. “There is…no one like you, Ororo.”
Heat rushes to my face. He glances down at my lips, and I feel them part. In this moment, all I want is to lean into him and—
Stop it, Ro!
I blink, reeling back, wrenching away from T’Challa’s eyes. “Oh! Wow! Look at that moon,” I cough out, needing a distraction. “Isn’t it something?”
He follows my gaze to the half-moon blazing bright in the sky. Only a couple weeks left before the worm moon, whatever that is.
He smiles. “We have a space program in Wakanda. I’d like to take you to the moon. Someday.”
Me on the moon. I know he is serious, but even the idea sounds impossible. “Ha! What don’t you have in Wakanda?”
He thinks for a moment and snaps his fingers. “White people.”
I cackle. “Sounds amazing!”
His eyes rake over mine and I gulp, aimlessly playing with the rocky sand. There’s an electric charge in the air tonight, and it takes everything in me to dodge it like the plague.
“Hey, why is Wakanda so secretive?”
T’Challa reels back. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you have, literally, everything. But you just keep it all for yourselves. You don’t share your knowledge and fancy toys with the rest of the world.”
He frowns. “It is…complicated.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You know what else is complicated? Starvation. Homelessness. Dealing with white people. All very complicated.”
His eyes shift away, staring out at the water.
“Would you care to go for a swim?” he asks.
The word swim makes my thoughts cloud with fantasies of us twirling in the water together like mermaids. I steel my nerves and put on my game face.
No big deal. It’s just water. I can handle that.
But my skin feels like it is on fire.
“Yes! Yes, I would.” I jump up and run down to the water.
“Ororo, wait!” he calls behind me.
No. I can’t wait. I need to put some distance between us.
I shed my flats and pants, and cannonball into the lake in my T-shirt with a giant splash. The water is heaven on my skin and scalp, hair flowing freely, but as I come up for air…
“Ugh!” I cough, cringing at the net of slimy moss and reeds covering me like a prickly blanket. Little gray fish swim by my legs, angered by the disturbance.
T’Challa strolls down to the shore, hands in his pockets, a smirk on his lips as I pluck leaves that are tangled in my hair like a silly crown.
“This is the first body of water we’ve seen since the ferry,” I say as an excuse, wiping my face clean. “I needed a refreshing dip.”
He shrugs. “I am just surprised that you would jump into a lake with crocodiles.”
My jaw hits the water. “What? Where?”
I spin around, searching the dark, unsure of how or where to move.
“Do not worry. They will not bother us if we do not bother them.”
“Right, don’t worry about hungry crocodiles waiting to make me their dinner.” I turn to him. “Does anything scare you?”
He pretends to think. “Hmm…not really.”
“That’s a lie.”
“We shall see,” he says. He locks eyes with me, then proceeds to take off his shirt.
And…there are his muscles again. I turn my back to keep him from seeing my reaction. This is ridiculous. I have no time to be caught up in silly fantasies about a prince. It’s not like anything could ever happen between us.
Suddenly, he calls out something, then jumps into the water, letting a giant wave splash me.
“Ah!” I scream.
“I was just following your lead,” he says, a laugh on his lips.
I shove water in his direction and can’t help laughing. “I bet!”
Our laughter dies down to a silence, the water smoothing out like a pane of glass. We wade around each other slowly, two passing ships, as if we instinctively know if we drift too close, we’d light the lake on fire. But the sight of T’Challa’s wet muscles as he dives under…whatever I feel stirring up, I have to fight hard to push back down.
He floats closer, long wet lashes glistening, determination in his eyes, and my heart beats faster. My toes grip hold of the rocks on the lake floor and I swim away, too afraid of what I may do with him too close.
* * *
Back on the beach, T’Challa enjoys a marula plum while I go toe to toe with my hair. I should have known jumping into a murky lake would be my end. Not only is my hair drying into a tangled heap, but it is also filled with random elements from the lake. I would rather the crocodiles have their way with me.
“Ugh,” I groan, untangling another blade of grass that’s tried to braid itself into my hair.
T’Challa chuckles, wringing his pants dry. “You wanted to swim.”
I shoot him a murderous look. “Well, don’t just sit there. Help me!”
T’Challa’s face falls for a moment. But he clears his throat, collects himself, and jumps up to sit behind me. “What do you need me to do?”
“Take anything out of my hair that doesn’t belong there. It shouldn’t be hard to find.”
His jittery hands touch the ends of my strands, and I feel a small yank.
“Ouch. Gentle!”
“Sorry,” he mumbles, a nervous quiver in his voice. Then, slowly, he combs through my hair with deft fingers.
We’re quiet as we work, enjoying the balmy night air and the soothing sounds of the lapping lake. Sitting this way reminds me of the tree in Sudan. He played with my hair then, too.
He gently grazes my scalp and I still, breath hitching. I close my eyes and lean into him.
T’Challa pulls out a piece of trapped bark and chuckles.
“Girls and their hair,” he muses with a tongue click. “My sister hates having her hair done, too. I wonder what she would say about yours.”
I freeze. “You have a sister?”
“Yes. Shuri. I have witnessed her with a braider. It is like watching someone suffer through surgery wide awake.”
I cackle. “What is she like?”
“Ah, Shuri is the smartest person I know. She is also very stubborn and annoying.” He is silent for a moment, fingers combing gently through my hair. “I felt bad for leaving her. The last few years have been hard. She misses Baba as much as I do. We are just grieving in different ways.”
The sadness in his voice makes me turn to face him. This closeness feels different from the bike. That is more perfunctory. This way, I can really see the depths of his eyes, the emotions swimming behind them.
“And how are you grieving?”
He fakes a smile. “I am…riding around Africa on an old bike.”
The moon shines down on his rich skin, and I can’t resist asking something I would never in a million years want someone to ask me.
“What happened to your father?”
T’Challa’s shoulders slump, as if he was waiting for this moment.
“Baba was considering making our existence known to the world,” he starts. “But some dignitaries came to Wakanda, wanting access to our vibranium, which is the most powerful energy-absorbing metal on this planet, for their own weapons.” His eyes shift away, as if he can’t bear looking at me when he says what’s next. “When Baba refused, a man named Klaw opened fire on us. Baba did as best he could in the fight. I tried to help, but Klaw turned on me, and Baba jumped between us. He died saving me.”
I move closer to him. “T’Challa. I’m so sorry.”
He nods, but still can’t meet my eyes. “I managed to use their weapons against them,” he continues. “But I was only able to shoot off Klaw’s arm before they escaped. We searched everywhere, but they had disappeared.” His voice hardens. “I wanted to kill him. I wanted revenge. So I have been hoping…that on my journey…”
“That you happen to bump into the man who murdered your father.”
He sighs. “Yes. The thought of finding him consumes me every day.” His hands roll into fists, digging hard into the sand.
I pull my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself tight. I can’t picture T’Challa having a violent bone in his body. But if I had someone to blame for my parents’ death, we would be one and the same.
“But I still haven’t found him,” he utters. “So if I could not save Baba or avenge him, do I even deserve to be king?”
My head pops up. “Are you kidding? T’Challa, I see you every morning training for the challenge. And the way you talk about Wakanda…no one could question your love and loyalty. You deserve to be king! And you’ll be so good at it.” I put a hand on his arm. “What happened to your father, it wasn’t your fault.”
He gazes at the water over my shoulder.
“I thought I would have more time with him,” he mumbles. “There is so much I have left to learn. I know I will see him again, in the Ancestral Plane. But I worry about what he will say about how I have led his people.” His eyes shine; he is no longer even speaking to me. “What if I mess this all up? How will I ever live up to his legacy?”
I touch his knee. “You won’t. You’ll make your own legacy. That’s what kings do. Do you know how many pharaohs ruled Egypt and completely changed the ways of their predecessors? King Akhenaten, who married Nefertiti, literally changed their art and religion. You can do things your way. Think of all the amazing changes you can make!”
He twists his lips. “We considered opening the doors once before. And then we lost Baba. But after all that I have seen in so many countries, it is hard to imagine us staying the same. I wonder what is best for Wakanda.” He looks at me, but it’s almost as if he’s looking past me, to something beyond. “Should we continue to live in secret or…help the world?”
I cock my head to the side. “I thought you weren’t scared of anything?”
T’Challa opens his mouth to reply and lets out a laugh instead. “Has anyone ever told you that you are quite wise?”
“It’s often implied.” I beam. “T’Challa, your father wanted the best for you and your people. So I have no doubt he would be proud of you, regardless. He probably believed in you before you were born.”
He sighs. “Baba saw so much more in me than I saw in myself.”
“Parents tend to do that,” I quip.
“Is that what your parents did?”
The wind knocks right out of me, and I shift away from him.
He blinks in shock, leaning forward, as if to catch me, arms resting on my knees. “Oh. I am sorry. I did not mean to…”
“It’s okay,” I mumble.
We grow silent, letting the bugs and night noises do the talking, but his arms don’t move away from me. I don’t know why I can’t talk about my family. It’s like a block within me. Like the mention of their names and what happened to me would steal the memories, which is all I have left of them.
“I will say…,” T’Challa starts, his voice low, and I suddenly realize how close we’ve moved toward each other’s faces. “Instead of running into Klaw…I ran into you. And I have not thought about revenge as much.” He bumps his arm into mine, a small smile on his face. “It is very easy to talk to you, Ororo.”
I smile up at him, trying to ignore the butterflies in my tummy, looking down at our intertwined legs. I scramble to free myself. How on earth did that happen?
“Um,” I say, backing away. “Good night, T’Challa.”
T’Challa hesitates, then says, “Good night, Ororo.”
I plop down on my mat and roll into a ball, trying not to feel guilty for holding back when he has told me so much.
* * *
We next stop for petrol at a settlement in a valley just a few kilometers outside of Hawassa. There’s a scattering of circular homes made of stone with thatched roofs, and one red dirt road dividing the little town in two. We’re surrounded by lush mountains—twin peaks in the distance—and flat farmland.
T’Challa argues in Amharic with a group of men as I sip some water under a plastic tarp held up by sticks, hiding us from the violent sun. Little children ride by on rusty red bicycles, others playing hand games, while their mothers, heads covered with white netela cloth, work in the market and watch on. I’m mesmerized by their smooth dark skin and joyful laughs. I never learned how to ride a bike or play such games. I almost start to feel sorry for myself until I think about all the fun I’ve had competing with the Moche and the boys. Even if it was for my survival.
But Moche would have loved to try riding one of those things. I’d even ride behind him.
T’Challa scowls while walking away from the other villagers, cracking his knuckles into his palm.
“Bad news?” I ask as he approaches, offering him water.
He stands in front of me, releasing a frustrated breath, and I almost want to laugh at his pouting. Poor prince can’t get what he wants when he wants it.
“The nearest petrol station is eighty kilometers out,” he states, sweeping his arm down the road. “We’ll never make it. They are waiting for ‘someone’ to bring back a can of gas from the next town over.”
I click my tongue. “So. We wait?”
“Either that or we hitch a ride to the nearest city.”
I shake my head. “No cities. Not until we reach Nairobi.”
He scans the market, considering. “I agree. But I am not sure how long we will have to wait.”
T’Challa plops on the ground beside me. We watch the villagers and merchants trade goods and bicker over prices. It almost feels like the souks back home. I tap my thigh out of habit, making sure my wallet is still nearby.
“I’m running out of money,” I mumble, really to myself. Without scoring another wallet, I’m not sure how long I’ll make it in Kenya.
T’Challa takes a long chug of water, gasping. “So am I.”
I glare at him with pursed lips. “How is that possible…my king?”
T’Challa rolls his eyes. “As I have said, I wanted my walkabout to be authentic. We could always stay here for a while and find work.”
“Work?” I say in mock astonishment, hand to my throat.
“I found work along the way,” he says, his chin tipped upward. “Cleaning floors, planting seeds, cutting timber. In Nigeria, I was a waiter at a hotel restaurant. I did not last very long.”
I chuckle, crossing my legs. “Bet those people would piss themselves knowing they were being served by a prince.”
He smiles proudly to himself.
“I even worked on a boat, as a fisherman, like my father once did. They let me off at the nearest docks after I became seasick. I told myself that I must remember to ask Baba in the Ancestral Plane why he agreed to such madness.” T’Challa’s warm chocolate eyes crinkle as he looks off in the distance.
I wonder if the girls in Wakanda notice the specks of amber that glint in them when he smiles. Or the way the muscles in his shoulders soften when he talks about his Baba.
Something nags at my memory, and it occurs to me that I’ve heard of that place before. Astral Plane. It was what the professor said right before he…
My body jolts and I whip around to T’Challa. “What is the Astral Plane?”
Startled, he turns to me before letting out a light laugh. “What?”
“The Astral Plane,” I spit out, my thoughts moving faster than my words will allow. “You said you will ‘go’ there. What is it? Where is it?”
T’Challa waves a hand, correcting me.
“No, no. I said the Ancestral Plane. But it is a part of the Astral Plane. How do you know—”
“But what is it?”
Confused, he fumbles through an answer. “The Ancestral Plane is where our ancestors’ souls are at rest.”
“And it’s a part of the Astral Plane. What do you know about it?”
T’Challa stares at the ground, hesitating.
“The Astral Plane is an alternate mirror dimension,” he says slowly, and I can tell he’s trying his best to articulate it in layman’s terms. “It’s accessible by sorcerers or powerful psychic beings, where it is said their souls can take different shapes. The world is fluid, boundless, even.”
Psychic beings. Is that what the professor is? He was able to read my thoughts, talk to me without moving his mouth. But the Shadow King could, as well. I roll onto my knees, eager to know more.
“And you can go there?”
T’Challa shakes his head. “Only one who takes the herb and performs the ritual can visit the Ancestral Plane. Sorcerers can use their powers to gain access to the entire dimension.”
“But how does it all work?”
