I had never gone to a movie on opening night before. I didn’t pre-order my ticket (I know, shame on me) but I was able to get one at the last minute for my local theater. It’s located in a predominantly white, upper middle class suburb of Chicago, which translated to a large crowd, but not one that sold out the place. Unfortunately, it also means I never had the spectacle that some predominantly POC audiences provided in their local theaters.
That’s OK.
My attention was fixed on the screen, wrapped up in the visuals and the depth of characterization. And M’Baku. As much as I hate the cold, I could move to the Jabari mountains just to be close to him.
Many people love the imagery of the Black Panther movie. One demonstration of the power of its script and the portrayal by its actors is the number of in-depth, thought provoking critiques it continues to spawn. It’s a Shakespearean-style family drama, the exiled relative come to try to claim the life he feels (justifiably) was denied him. The story of a prince who revered his father but undergoes an emotional arc when confronted with the knowledge that his father was an imperfect man. A story of strong, empowered women, and a Disney princess with beauty, independence, strength, and brains. Lots and lots of brains.
Mostly, the movie is a fantasy of what might have been, an afro-futuristic tale that illustrates the conflicts of the forced diaspora of Africans to the Americas. Just as there is no real Wakanda on any map, we also know there is no real homeland for us to go back to – our history was forcibly stolen, our slave ancestors punished for trying to remember life before they were thrown in the bottoms of ships and treated like things. The connection between African Americans and Africans is still one we struggle to explore. This movie turned the spotlight on that struggle with the difference in the way Killmonger and T’Challa see the world.
Killmonger feels the connection between himself and all people of African ancestry. He was forged in the fire of oppression in the white world of the US. Whether their roots were from Wakanda or another country, he feels kinship for downtrodden people who look like him. For him, all black people around the world are part of his crusade.
I remember the feeling when I went to college years ago. There were so few black people on the campus that it didn’t matter if we actually “knew” each other, if we saw each other we were friends. The connection was real. Not racism, just a “thank God there is someone else who understands me” feeling.
T’Challa is immersed in the idea of Wakanda Forever. His loyalty is to the people of his country, first , last and always. His job and training is to lead and protect them; keeping his country and its way of life sacred are paramount. He is aware that there are other people around the world in dire situations, but his position of privilege allows him to remain laser focused on his country. At least until first Nakia his ex-girlfriend turned spy (War Dog) and then his exiled cousin N’Jadaka, aka Erik Stevens, aka Killmonger, forces him to get “woke”.
Killmonger actually guides T’Challa through an emotional arc that ends with him seeing a broader world, and a broader purpose for himself and his country in that world. Many African Americans have fixated on Killmonger’s desire to be buried:
in the ocean with my ancestors that jumped from the ships, because they knew death was better than bondage.
It’s a great line, a wonderful, stirring sentiment.
I may understand why so many people listened to that and proclaimed themselves members or Team Killmonger, but it never once pulled me in, and I’ve seen the movie four times. I can’t celebrate suicide. Besides, T’Challa’s focus changes even before his cousin’s dying declaration.
As a student of history, I know most of the slaves buried in the sea did not willingly jump from the ships. Slavers routinely expected to lose 10-15 % of “product” with every voyage. Most slaves perished through illness and starvation, not suicide. The dead and dying were dumped into the ocean. My ancestors are the ones who lived, who survived months in the bottom of a boat with little food or water. Who then cared for each other, carried out small and large acts of sabotage, took care of their families, and, in many cases, found ways to escape their masters.
The second time I saw Black Panther, (the second of four times, I admit I keep going back) I paid more attention to the Jabari, a tribe living in self-imposed exile. M’Baku challenges T’Challa during an early scene in the movie. In many ways that battle mirrors the final struggle between T’Challa and Killmonger. I don’t think it’s coincidence that both fights end with T’Challa on a cliff offering his opponent mercy.
Killmonger responds with his iconic speech about preferring death. M’Baku begins the same way, declaring he would rather die than surrender. T’Challa reminds him that his people need him alive. M’Baku looks at his men before reluctantly agreeing to capitulate. Because he chose to stay alive he is later able to both save Wakanda’s king and lead the rest of the Jabari warriors to the fight, effectively saving all his countrymen from the insurrection led by the border tribe. Because M’Baku chose to live, he was there to save the day.
That’s why I’m team M’Baku. He showed that even for members of a downtrodden and largely ignored group, staying alive is important. You can’t help your fellow man in the future if you decide you would rather be dead.