Wakanda Forever!
Admittedly, I am not a big Marvel fan — I detest mythical superhero films with the same retired plot of superhero vs. villain. Marvel films lack spontaneity and realism — they have become a mere product with flashy and over the top lights and theatrics, and less of a movie based on meaning and philosophy.
Like most Black people, when the Disney, Box Office Hit, Black Panther movie was released in 2018 — I flocked to the theater. Seeing Black folks decked out in traditional Kente clothing and African wear — embodying the spirit of Wakanda, and being unapologetically Black was liberating and exhilarating. Seeing Black children who could finally relish in seeing a superhero that looked like them — someone they could emulate brought me immense Black joy. Most importantly, seeing a film that depicted the fierceness, tenacity, and brilliance of Black women like Princess Shuri ignited my “Black girl nerd.” In a world where so much of our experience is told and seen through the lens of our oppressor, and Black death and grief becomes so much of our stories — it was nice to see a film that depicted nothing but Black excellence and badassery.
Wakanda represented the hopes and aspirations of our beloved ancestors. I think about activists like Malcolm X who spoke about and believed in the power of Black Economics — the idea that Black people can generate their own wealth and economic self-sufficiency by investing in the creation of Black resources and businesses — our own vibranium. We could recreate Black Wall Street — regenerate a society where Black wealth could not be stolen and Black communities and brilliance could not be infiltrated — but I digress because…racism.
I was driven to see the sequel — Black Panther — Wakanda Forever because it was a Marvel film that had deep meaning and philosophy, a personal significance. I was also thoroughly impressed with the infallible Chadwick Boseman — from his historic and groundbreaking performances in films like 42, and the posthumous release MA Rainey’s Black Bottom — he was obviously an actor way ahead of his time. Chadwick had a reigning supreme confidence about him, but also channeled a level of humility in which he always embodied a spirit of gratitude for being alive and being chosen. He was Black Excellence personified — on and off screen. It brought me joy that he gave young Black boys a Marvel superhero to emulate but most importantly — a real character to embody.
I knew there would be no way this film could top the first one — how do you beat or match the original when the original character is no longer with us? Ryan Coogler did an astounding job of centering the life and legacy of Black Panther, T’Challa. He was delicate in his portrayal of how losing a highly regarded and noble leader disturbs and unsettles a community and it’s people. Black death is shattering, unnerving and disturbing — it forces us to lose the foundation in which we stand, and the energy that sustains us. It forces us to deal with the tension between being infallible vs. fallible.
This is why I appreciated the different representations of Black women grief in this film. Black women are rarely afforded the opportunity to be emotionally versatile and flawed in the way we deal with pain and suffering. We must be strong, formidable and without fault. It was liberating to watch a film where were Black women grief was shown and displayed unabashedly. We watched as Queen Ramonda battled both grief and rage, while trying to restore peace and protection to her daughter Princess Shuri, and calamity to her nation. Queen Ramonda expressed a level of vulnerability with the loss of her son — she acknowledged early on that he had left and believed that “grief is often the price we pay for love.”
She was a spiritual woman, so she relied heavily on her own traditional ceremonious ways to process and mourn death. Here we saw a Black woman who didn’t bury the reality of death, she confronted it head on — while also realizing that she could not continue to deepen herself with grief or revenge — she had to continue to live a life embodying her son’s legacy and leading a nation.
Before T’Challa’s death, we watch Princess Shuri constantly pace around her lab to find a solution based on science, instead of opting to be by her brother’s side during his last hours. Like many Black women-we struggle coming to terms with life’s ending — so we bury ourselves in things that are a constant state in our lives — work and labor as we believe these things will compensate for the loss and pain we feel. Unlike her mother, we watch Shuri go through stages of denial and frustration — -leading her to question, whether she is using her feelings of pain and loss for revenge or the more noble act of choosing kindness in the face of threat and war.
The way in which Shuri dealt with grief was real and raw to me — the scenes where she held back tears, the screens where she cried profusely, and the scenes where she wanted to honestly, burn the world to the ground. We have all been there. As much as it brought me comfort and solace to see the diversity of Black women grieve, it was equally satisfying to watch a Black woman in rage, and have people understand her rage and her need to seek revenge. Shuri had an uncontested, understood and unmeasurable display of rage that even white women tears couldn’t penetrate.
Nakia, Black Panther’s love interest decided to not go to his funeral; — and we later find out that he requested she not attend, in order to protect her and his son. Nakia moved to Hati after his death, leaving her beloved nation of Wakanda to work and be a mother — she expressed that she wanted her son to grow up away from the pressure of the throne. Nakia explains that T’Challa was everything to her — and she needed space and time to process her grief. Abandonment is a big part of grief — we often feel as if we have to disappear or separate ourselves from every aspect of our lives that reminded us of previous Black life. Nakia was willing to sacrifice her tie and connection to Wakanda in order to give herself space and time to process grief, while also working hard to create a new narrative for her son. For some, in order to deal with loss, it often means the writing of a new. When Black women experience pain and loss, rarely is she given grace to step way. Instead, the pressure of needing to carry on for your community — both physically and emotionally becomes a burden that is incredible hard to bear. I think about the sacrifice that many of our Black matriarchs have made when death happens — never “abandoning” their loved ones. Nakia modeled the importance of setting both physical and emotional boundaries during the grieving process.
At a time where most of are feeling overwhelmed, and burnt out from the intricacies of life, work, Blackness and womanhood — watching a film that displayed the versatility of Black women grief was exactly what I needed. The way in which of these women stood boldly in their own flaws, imperfections and discomfort while managing the weight of grief and Black womanhood permitted me to do the same. I needed a film to boldly whisper in my ear, and scream to the world that the pain you have been carrying is far too much to bear — and whether you choose to confront the pain head on, cultivate our own emotional and physical boundaries, dance around a fire and sing traditional African chants, or deal with the manifestations of rage, and revenge — you have permission to fully embrace every part of your humanity — your fallibility.
Wakanda Forever!
