Oakland, California — 1985
The apartment smelled of fried oil, dust, and old carpet that had soaked up too many summers.
Outside, Oakland breathed restlessly—sirens rose and fell in the distance, car engines growled, and somewhere below the cracked window, a man laughed too loud, too sharp. Neon light from the liquor store across the street slipped through the blinds, striping the walls in tired reds and blues.
Inside the small bedroom, a single bulb flickered above, buzzing faintly like it might give up at any second.
N'Jobu sat on the edge of the mattress, one hand resting on the sagging springs, the other smoothing down a blanket covered in fading cartoon animals. The bed was too small for two boys, but they fit anyway—curled together like cubs, limbs tangled without complaint.
The younger one, N'Jore, had already surrendered to sleep.
At four years old, his breathing came soft and even, chest rising and falling beneath the thin blanket. One thumb hovered near his mouth, a habit he hadn't quite outgrown. His face was rounder than his brother's, lashes thick against his cheeks, expression peaceful in a way that felt almost unfair in a world like this.
N'Jobu lingered a moment longer over him.
He adjusted the blanket so it covered N'Jore's shoulders, tucking it in with practiced care, as though he were sealing the boy away from the noise outside—from the sirens, from the anger, from the world that did not forgive weakness.
Then he turned.
The older boy lay awake, eyes wide and shining in the dim light.
N'Jadaka, seven years old, already carried sharpness in his gaze—too alert, too observant. His body was still small, all elbows and knees, but his mind was restless. He watched his father the way some children watched television: hungry, absorbing everything.
N'Jobu smiled softly.He knew that look.
"Sleep," he murmured. "Tomorrow is school."
N'Jadaka didn't move.
Instead, he shifted closer, blanket rustling. "Baba?"
N'Jobu sighed, though there was warmth in it. "Yes, my son?"
The boy hesitated, eyes flicking briefly to his sleeping brother before returning to his father's face.
"Can you tell me… the story?" he asked. "About home."
The word home hung in the air, heavier than it should have been.
N'Jobu leaned back against the wall, the paint cool through his shirt. He studied his son's face—how hope and longing warred quietly behind those young eyes. Oakland was all N'Jadaka had ever known: cracked sidewalks, chain-link fences, teachers who mispronounced his name and never bothered to learn it properly.
But Wakanda—
Wakanda lived in stories.
N'Jobu reached up and turned the lamp lower. Shadows stretched, dancing across the walls like ancient figures waiting to be summoned.
"Alright," he said at last. "Gladly."
N'Jadaka's smile came quick and bright.
N'Jobu closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he began.
"The universe," N'Jobu said softly, his voice dropping into the cadence of memory and myth, "was not born in silence."
N'Jadaka leaned closer.
"It screamed into existence."
N'Jobu lifted his hands, fingers spreading as if tearing something apart.
"Fire. Light. Chaos so vast that time itself didn't yet know how to move forward. A single point—smaller than a grain of sand—collapsed, then exploded, becoming everything. Space. Stars. Worlds."
The flickering bulb above them buzzed, dimming slightly.
"From that storm came six forces," he continued. "Not gods. Not yet. Stones—crystallized laws of reality. Power. Space. Time. Mind. Soul. Reality."
N'Jadaka swallowed. "Like magic?"
N'Jobu smiled faintly. "Stronger than magic."
He gestured to the darkness beyond the window. "They drifted through the universe, shaping fate long before humans ever learned to walk upright."
N'Jobu's voice deepened.
"And among those who found these stones… were the Celestials."
The name carried weight.
"Giants," he said. "So large they could cradle suns in their hands. Beings who judged worlds the way men judge crops."
N'Jadaka's brow furrowed. "They killed people?"
"Yes," N'Jobu said plainly. "Entire civilizations."
He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees.
"One of them was named Eson the Searcher."
The shadows on the wall seemed to sharpen.
"He believed life must be tested. And when a world failed that test—when arrogance outweighed balance—he erased it."
N'Jobu raised his hand slowly, palm glowing purple in N'Jadaka's imagination.
"In his grasp burned the Power Stone."
N'Jadaka's eyes widened. "What happened?"
"Far across the stars," N'Jobu said, "there was a planet called N'Kali Prime."
His voice softened with wonder.
"Crystal cities rose from oceans that shone like mirrors. Their people had mastered energy—woven it into their homes, their bodies, their weapons. They believed themselves untouchable."
N'Jobu paused.
"Eson disagreed."
The pause stretched.
"He descended from the sky," N'Jobu said quietly, "and raised the Power Stone."
N'Jadaka held his breath.
"The light—purple and endless—tore through the planet. Mountains cracked. Seas boiled. The world broke apart like glass."
N'Jobu snapped his fingers.
"Gone."
N'Jadaka flinched.
"But destruction," N'Jobu continued, "is never clean."
He lowered his voice, almost reverent.
"Fragments of that world survived. Shards infused with the Stone's energy. Matter rewritten by infinity itself."
N'Jobu's eyes opened now, dark and intense.
"They became something new."
He let the name settle between them.
"Vibranium."
The word felt alive.
"These fragments drifted through space," N'Jobu said, "until fate pulled them into the influence of another Stone—the Space Stone."
N'Jadaka frowned. "Pulled them where?"
"Here."
N'Jobu pointed down.
"Earth."
He smiled faintly. "Millions of years ago. When dinosaurs still walked beneath the sun."
N'Jadaka gasped. "Really?"
"I think," N'Jobu added, eyes twinkling, "that the dinosaurs died because of it."
A quiet laugh escaped N'Jadaka before he clapped a hand over his mouth, glancing at his brother.
N'Jore stirred but did not wake.
"The meteor fell," N'Jobu continued, "into the heart of Africa. The land shook. Rivers changed course. Mountains rose."
He spread his hands.
"And from the crater came a metal that absorbed force… and remembered it."
N'Jobu tapped his chest.
"It changed everything."
Plants near it transformed. Animals grew stronger. A flower bloomed—heart-shaped, glowing faintly."
"The herb," N'Jadaka whispered.
"Yes."
N'Jobu nodded.
"Five tribes gathered. They fought. They argued. They feared each other."
His voice grew steadier.
"Until a warrior named Bashenga listened to the Panther Goddess, Bast."
N'Jobu straightened, pride threading his tone.
"He consumed the herb. He became the first Black Panther."
N'Jadaka's chest swelled.
"He united them," N'Jobu said. "And Wakanda was born."
Silence followed.
The apartment felt smaller now—like it was struggling to contain something vast.
"And we still hide?" N'Jadaka asked finally, his voice small but earnest.
"Yes," N'Jobu replied.
"Why?"
N'Jobu did not answer.
N'Jore shifted in his sleep, letting out a soft sound.
N'Jobu seized the moment, standing and smoothing the blanket once more.
"Sleep," he said gently. "Your brother needs rest."
N'Jadaka nodded, though questions still burned behind his eyes.
"Goodnight, Baba."
"Sound sleep," N'Jobu replied.
As he turned off the lamp, darkness swallowed the room.
But the story remained.