Black Boys Bloom Thorns First
Chapter 1
"Handheld seduction hijacking my point of view...
Everybody's watching
Checking for minutiae...
And I wish I cared less
But, I wanna be on your mind"
Joi - "Stare At Me"
N'Jobu Udaku could be stubborn when he wanted to be. For several weeks he refused to attend any Black Student Union meetings on the UC Berkley campus while he was completing his masters in Political Science. His roommate Bakari Dunduza (ne, Julius Greene—he changed his name to Bakari to embrace some nebulous unknown African heritage), kept pestering him about being involved in Black campus politics.
"Bakari," N'Jobu would sigh, rolling his eyes at him, "I am Wakandan, I know who I am and where my people come from. Why do I need to be part of an organization that is so fixated on heritage?"
Bakari often gave N'Jobu an exasperated glare, his round glasses slipping on his nose as he stared at the arrogant exchange student with the regal bearing and penetrating dark brown eyes. This time was no exception.
"We're all African, and we're trying to survive America," Bakari said.
"You are American, and you are trying to survive your first semester exams," N'Jobu answered sipping on a cup of English Breakfast tea and perusing the New York Stock Exchange and Wall Street Journal simultaneously. His breakfast of lukewarm scrambled eggs and slightly burnt toast sat untouched while they sat inside the University cafeteria after the seven-a.m. morning rush.
Bakari sat across from him, a stack of Black Student Union flyers in his hand and a soggy bowl of cereal pushed to the side on the table.
"What's wrong with getting in touch with our heritage while we also organize around issues that impact us?"
"What issues impact you, hmm? You are on an elite campus in the UC system. Your parents are both lawyers at private firms. You vacation on Martha's Vineyard every summer. What exactly is your struggle, brother?" N'Jobu's voice was teasing, his bright clear eyes shining with mischief.
"Man, fuck you," Bakari said, picking up a plastic spoon and swirling limp flakes around his cereal bowl.
"You mad?" N'Jobu asked.
"Naw, forget it bruh," Bakari answered, pushing his bowl away again, still clutching his flyers tight.
"You're mad. Seriously?"
"Look bruh, just go to one meeting. It's a good way to meet other Black people on campus, network…and, on my mother man, the finest honeys be there. There's always good snacks too."
"Do you ever not think of food?"
Bakari reached over and snatched one of the burnt pieces of buttered toast on N'Jobu's plate.
"Food is my drug, man, for reals," Bakari said stuffing the blackened wheat toast in his mouth, munching loudly.
N'Jobu picked up one of the green Black Student Union Flyers from Bakari's stack and looked it over. The meeting was only for one hour. Food was being provided by a local Ethiopian restaurant. The agenda was simple: talks of Spring Elections for officers, plans to march at an upcoming Mumia Abu Jamal rally, and then an open discussion of continental Africans and the Diaspora.
"My dude, just peep one meeting. If it ain't your thang, then cool," Bakari said.
N'Jobu looked at his friend, folded up the flyer and stuck it inside a class folder next to his plate of food.
"One meeting. And the food better be good."
"Free food is always good, son," Bakari answered with a big grin on his face.
###
The Black Student Union meeting took place inside a large campus meeting hall near the library. Rows of white folding chairs were arranged in a semi-circle in front of a podium decorated with red, black and green colored streamers. A large placard leaned against the podium with the BSU insignia on it, a simple Black Power Fist also colored red, black and green.
N'Jobu was shocked at the number of students who showed up. He counted at least seventy when he took his seat in the back near the exit. If the meeting bored him, he wanted to make a discreet and quiet exit. Soon, the meeting space became standing room only. The vast majority of the members were female, at least sixty percent of the attendees. But N'Jobu had already been made keenly aware that Black American women tended to stay in college and graduate at a higher rate than their male counterparts on campus. They also took on a lot more of the leadership roles on campus too. N'Jobu now also understood why the men who did come to the meetings did so—the women here were gorgeous. There were all sizes and all shades of Black, and these sisters were sharp, organized, and ready to shake up the world. The energy in the room was buzzing. Like there was an expectation of something.
Bakari walked in and eased his way to the back where N'Jobu had saved him a seat.
"This place is packed," N'Jobu said.
"The BSU from San Francisco State is here, and so are some sisters from Mills College and a few jc's too. The Mumia Abu Jamal march is a big deal." Bakari's head swiveled around looking for something. "I guess the food ain't here yet," he said, "I'm hungry as fuck."
A pretty dark brown skinned woman with long box braids giggled when she heard Bakari. N'Jobu leaned in towards her and whispered, "I apologize for my friend's language." The woman gazed into N'Jobu's eyes and giggled again.
"That's okay," she said, warming up to N'Jobu's deep voice and lilting Wakandan accent, "I'm hungry too and was wondering where the food was myself." N'Jobu smiled and the woman's smile grew wider. Bakari nudged N'Jobu in his side with an elbow.
"Cool it, bruh. Keep that Wakanda-bringing-sexy-back shit under wraps and give other niggas a chance up in here."
"I'm just talking," N'Jobu protested.
"Naw man, your voice be having women dropping panties before they even know your name. Don't talk. Just sit there and listen until I get a chance."
N'Jobu glanced around the room. He caught a few women sneaking looks his way, and he tried to be subtle scoping them out too. He hadn't really interacted with very many Black women on campus in the last few weeks. It wasn't that he lacked interest, he'd just been busy with his studies, and also keeping on track with his duties at home as the second son of a King. His older brother T'Chaka was being groomed to take on the mantle of King when the time came, and he himself was being groomed to become the Ambassador of Wakanda, thus his graduate studies in America. After his studies, he would have to return to Wakanda for a compulsory eighteen-month enlistment in the Wakanda Elite Fighting Unit, a military wing of his reclusive and isolationist nation. After his mandatory military duties, he would transition into his Ambassador role, and soon he would be paired up with a proper wife…
N'Jobu shook his head and tried to detach himself from all the things he was required to do for his nation in the future. He was enjoying his time in America, even when he witnessed her contradictions while being touted as the leading world power. He chuckled to think how ass-backward the country really was, how much superior his own country was compared to the U.S. in technology, culture, and governance. However, he found Black Americans intriguing and a bit naïve in some things, so he wanted to learn more about them. He chose Berkley and San Francisco to live because it was touted as a bastion of liberal thinking. Also, it was warmer than New York, the place where his father preferred for him to be because of the United Nations. But N'Jobu liked being far away from his family right now. There was a freedom in people not knowing who he really was.
The meeting began right on time with a pleasantly plump light-skinned woman taking the podium. She tapped the microphone to make sure it was on, then pushed her long ponytail over one shoulder and spoke.
"Hi everyone, my name is Tonette. Oh, my, I'm so excited that so many of you made it out here tonight! Hi Sheila!" Tonette waved at a woman seated near the entrance. "We're going to start the meeting right now, and just to let you know, the food will be arriving halfway through, so we'll stop for a break to eat, and then finish up with the Diaspora discussion."
N'Jobu looked at his expensive Rolex to check the time. The woman seated next to him saw him checking, and her eyes looked taken aback by how expensive his watch looked. He was always slow to remember not to wear too many accessories that screamed wealth, especially when he was supposed to be coming from a "poor" country, but N'Jobu was accustomed to nice things and found it hard to transition his wardrobe and appearance. But Bakari was always telling him that it didn't matter what he wore, N'Jobu carried a sense of entitlement and richness within him. Even if he was wearing Levi's and a plain white T-shirt with flip flops, the gait in his walk, the smooth rich unblemished melanin of his dark skin, the pearly white of his perfect teeth, his always fresh line ups and the promise of sensual pleasures in his honey-tinged baritone told on him.
So N'Jobu worked on being humble. A lot. People waited on him hand and foot back home, so when he first lived in the States, he had to get accustomed to doing all the things himself. Like shopping, cleaning, paying bills. At least he was a very good cook. In the palace of Wakanda he loved being in the kitchen with all the gourmet chefs that prepared all the family meals. They often let him cook with them, and this love of cooking kept him connected when he felt a little homesick. Bakari was grateful for this skill with his own non-cooking ass. N'Jobu found that American women loved men who cooked, especially those who cooked well, and he used this to his advantage when he did find time to woo women in their shared graduate student housing.
The women he did date were often other graduate students, a few women of color, but the majority white because that's what he was often around because of the circles he ran with on the diplomatic track. The Black women he dated and wanted to keep dating just couldn't deal with his personality and his life plan. It was true that he was arrogant. He was prideful. He was also up front that his goal was to become an Ambassador and that he would have to marry a Wakandan woman as part of tradition. It was the tradition part that drove Black women against him. And also, the fact that he never wanted to introduce them to his family.
One Black woman he came close to dating exclusively turned on him when she claimed that he always thought Continental Africans were better than Black Americans. He couldn't help it. He felt this was true most of the time. All the advantages Black Americans had in the U.S., and he couldn't understand why they weren't doing so much better. Especially when Continental Africans could come to America and often outperform American born Blacks at Universities. But he had a strong sex drive and liked sex a whole lot, and the women he slept with loved sleeping with him a whole lot too, even when they were mad at him half the time. So, he often kept his opinions to himself to keep the peace. Until he grew bored with them.
His current fuck buddy was an art major from Cameroon, and thus far, she had no problems with his diplomacy goals or his dick. He hoped she wouldn't be here tonight because he felt like flirting a bit. A thick-thighed cutie with a small waist and glorious behind was leaning against a wall to his left, and she was giving him lustful looks. He stood up from his seat and walked over to her.
"You can have my seat, I'll stand," he said to her. She looked up at him, his six-foot-two athletic frame towering over her.
"Thank you…"
"N'Jobu," he said.
The cutie bit down on her lower lip, and N'Jobu took a split second to brush past her so she could move and take his seat. She glanced back at him.
"Andrea," she said back to him.
He watched her step past Bakari and plant her lush behind in his former seat. The woman that was next to N'Jobu shifted in her seat away from the new girl. It had been a minute since N'Jobu had been with a thick girl. His Cameroonian woman was long and lean, so a change would be nice. For a split second, he imagined Andrea's fat ass bouncing on his lap. He shook away the thoughts and focused his attention back to the meeting.
###
Califia Stevens thought she would have an easier time finding parking for her motorcycle in the campus parking lot. Apparently, Berkley students had a huge number of scooters and other motorcyclists on campus.
By the time she was able to navigate her way out of Oakland, she was already thirty minutes late to the BSU meeting because of all the circling around she had to do before she found a spot. She texted Bakari to save her a plate if there was any food left. She'd need to gobble down some protein before she started her waitress gig at the Blue Rose later that night.
Pulling off her helmet, Califia stuck her phone and keys in her backpack and jogged in the direction of the BSU meeting.
She could hear the loud voices of the meeting still going on, and when she checked her watch, there was still 10 minutes left until the meeting was over. Perhaps Tonette would still give her a minute to talk about Aarav Naidu, an Indian American conservative who had written a book that was so full of anti-Black sentiment, Califia felt compelled to let as many BSU organizations throughout Oakland and San Francisco know about his book tour through their schools. She carried a heavily highlighted copy of the book in her backpack to show the Berkley students.
Before opening the glass door of the meeting space, Califia quickly pulled off her beanie and fluffed out the twists of her thick auburn hair. She took a deep breath clutching her helmet and walked inside.
The smell of tasty Ethiopian food hit her nose, and she felt her mouth water when she saw people tearing pieces of injera bread to scoop food from their paper plates. Looking around for the Berkley BSU President, she spotted Tonette speaking to Bakari, and a tall dude in a cream-colored turtleneck. She started walking over towards Tonette when the dude in the turtleneck noticed her approach and started staring at her. At first, she thought he recognized her and tried to place where she may have seen him before herself. But then her eyes found Tonette's and she was apologizing to her for being tardy.
"Girl, go on up to the mic and do your thing. You still have time," Tonette said.
"You don't want to introduce me first?"
"Sis, everybody knows who you are around here," Tonette teased.
Califia handed Tonette her helmet and took off her backpack to retrieve the book she wanted to show the group.
"Aye, yo, Califia, come meet my boy N'Jobu—"
"You save me a plate, Bakari?"
"Yeah, I got you—"
Califia barely glanced at N'Jobu as she strode up to the podium.
"What's good, Fam?" Califia said into the mic. Her voice drew the attention of everyone. A few in the crowd acknowledged her and said her name with great affection. Califia let herself look around the room first to make sure she had every eye on her. She must've been quite a sight to some of the gathered as they eyed her biking gear of form-fitting black pants and matching black jacket. She had new biker boots that she wore on the weekend, but today she was just sporting comfortable Adidas kicks. She would be wearing high heels tonight for her job and needed comfortable shoes to ride home in later that night. She wiped a finger across her silver nose ring and continued addressing the crowd.
"My name is Califia Stevens, I'm the V.P. of SFSU's Black Student Union. I just wanted to let you all be aware of an author that is doing a campus book tour this week in our area."
Califia held up the thick hardback book.
"His name is Aarav Naidu. He is a Dawes Fellow at the Ivy Conservative Think Tank in Washington D.C. His book is racist, anti-woman, anti-Black drivel. He is speaking at my campus tomorrow night, and he will be speaking on this campus the day after that."
The room was quiet as Califia gave more details about the book. She had an attentive audience.
"I feel it's important that you are aware of what this man represents. I know on social media and on TV this man is getting praise for being the new voice of conservative thinking that looks at 'both sides' of the issues. But this man is a piece of shit and his book is trash."
People began laughing after she called him a piece of shit. She saw Bakari recording her with his phone, and she gave him an annoyed look. He was always recording everything, trying to create a time capsule of his activism. His friend standing next to him had his arms crossed over his chest, listening to her every word.
"Tomorrow night some members of our BSU will be attending his Q & A, and it would be hella cool if many of you here could join us if you have time. I apologize for the short notice, but we weren't sure if he was still going to appear on our campus. The more bodies we have in the room, the more these fools realize that they can't just come to our schools and spew garbage. This man is on some oldschool Bell Curve racial hierarchy bullshit. My BSU members are willing to come out on Friday to back you up if you decide to go to his Q & A here."
Califia felt her stomach rumbling, so she wrapped up her speech quickly by giving out times and locations and telling the students the website address to get more info. She thanked everyone for their time, stuffed the book back into her backpack and zoomed in on Bakari and what she hoped was her saved food plate in his hand.
"Here," Bakari said handing her a plate.
Califia planted herself onto an open chair, put the plate on her lap and began scarfing down spicy lentil samosas.
"Whoa girl, don't give yourself indigestion," Tonette said, handing Califia a can of soda.
"N'Jobu, this is Califia. Cali, this is N'Jobu," Bakari said.
Califia stuffed a whole samosa in her mouth and looked up at N'Jobu. She opened the can of orange soda, gulped down half and finally said, "Hi."
"Starving, I see," N'Jobu said, blessing her with his megawatt smile.
"I haven't eaten anything all day," she answered, dipping the soft torn pieces of injera into a mixture of cabbage and seasoned strips of beef.
"Where you been all day?" Bakari asked.
"Went up to see my Dad," she said. Bakari nodded.
"Your father couldn't feed you after a nice visit?" N'Jobu asked, a teasing grin on his face.
"My Dad's in prison," she answered matter of fact, licking her fingers and focusing on her plate again.
N'Jobu's grin froze, and Bakari changed the subject quickly.
"Yo, I'll be there for the Naidu thing on Thursday," Bakari said.
"Thanks."
Bakari looked over at N'Jobu who was still trying to recover from his accidental faux pas. He seemed genuinely flummoxed. Tonette appeared nonplussed.
"So..uh, N'Jobu, Califia and I are a part of the West African Dance Troupe I drum for. We've been performing together for over six years now," Bakari said.
"That's very cool," N'Jobu said, his voice soft as he watched Califia.
"What happened with the Diaspora discussion?" Califia asked Tonette.
"Had to cut it short because the Mumia Abu Jamal march took up more time than we thought. It's going to be huge. People are really ready to show up and show out next week."
"Good, they should," Califia said. N'Jobu was still looking at her. Now that her belly was full, Califia took a good long look at him. He was really good looking. Like model good looking. And there was something about his eyes that made him even more attractive. What her mother would call soft eyes,… kind eyes, but with the right hint of secret scoundrel. She wondered what his bedroom eyes looked like. And she immediately questioned where that thought came from. She couldn't place his accent, so she wondered if he purposely tried to downplay it to fit in, or if he had been in the States for a long time. She looked at her watch again and then noticed the bracelet on N'Jobu's left wrist. It was tucked underneath his sleeve, but the obsidian colored round beads with the strange lavender markings caught her eye. She reached up and touched his hand. N'Jobu jumped a little by the sudden feel of her fingers on his skin.
"It's beautiful," Califia said admiring the beads, taking a closer look at the writing. Something clicked in her mind. The memory of a bad blind date set up by Bakari. They were at the Museum of Modern Art, the guy was fine as hell, but handsy, and Califia was looking at an exhibit on textiles. There was a display of Central and East African blankets…
"This is Wakandan, right?" Califia asked, recognizing the markings on N'Jobu's beads from the similar markings she saw on those blankets a few weeks ago. N'Jobu grinned again.
"Good eye," he said. He quickly tucked it back under his sleeve.
"Are you..?"
"Yes."
They were looking at one another, a long silence stretching between them. Until Andrea walked over with another woman.
"N'Jobu," Andrea said, stepping in front of Califia and tugging on N'Jobu's arm, "come and meet some friends of mine."
Andrea pulled N'Jobu towards her, he stopped and looked back down at Califia.
"Here, let me throw that away for you. Are you done with your soda?" he asked.
"Yeah, thanks," Califia said, handing him her trash.
N'Jobu took her trash and followed Andrea to the other side of the room. Tonette took her leave, leaving Bakari and Califia together.
"Is that his girlfriend?" Califia asked.
"Naw. Why? You interested?"
Califia didn't answer, just watched N'Jobu interact with Andrea and several other women. He appeared to be pouring on the charm because they were all smiles and glossy lips hanging onto his every word.
"Be warned, that nigga slangs dick," Bakari said.
Califia made a face.
"Whyyyyyy are you like that, Bakari? Did I ask about his dick?"
"Didn't have to, the way you were staring him down, I know the thirst is real," he said.
"Negro, please," she said.
"You my girl, my homie for life, but I know parched when I see it. You and a bunch of other women in here. But that one right there," Bakari pointed to Andrea, "I'ma be hearing her get them walls beat up tonight."
"You are so crude," Califia said, sizing up Andrea. Babygirl had all the right weaponry, so it shouldn't be a surprise that N'Jobu would step to her. Califia checked her watch again.
"Shit, I gotta dip," she said.
"Word? I'll walk you out," Bakari said, "but let me make a to go plate right quick."
###
Author's Notes:
I love the Black Panther movie, and many have wondered about Erik Killmonger's mother. So I decided to start my series with how N'Jobu met and eventually conceived my favorite Fuckboi in the Marvel Universe.
Part 1of the series details how Erik's parents met, fell in love, and eventually conceived our favorite Marvel anti-villain. ( I say anti-villain because Erik had some legit reasons to whoop Wakanda's ass and take over, he just went about it the wrong way because...reasons!) N'Jobu finds it difficult to hide his son and his woman in plain sight with the clock ticking on stealing vibranium with Klaue. Part one takes us right up to where the Black Panther movie starts.
Part 2 of the series will follow Erik to MIT where he comes into his own solidified political consciousness after meeting the love of his life (because we all want to see him fucking too, let's be honest). He soon starts training to become the badass we all know and love after going black-ops before heading off to Wakanda to claim his throne. It will detail what happens to him after he was "killed" by T'Challa where we find out that bad guys don't always stay dead.
Part 3 goes into the political turmoil and post-civil war drama in Wakanda that takes place after the end of the Black Panther movie. This final book (spoiler alert, lol!) will reveal how Erik was actually saved by T'Challa, but kept in a cryogenic chamber (like Bucky). It's discovered that Erik has his own secret family that T'Challa is trying to hide, essentially repeating the mistakes of his father. Lots of political drama and the Jabari tribe will be involved, so yes M'Baku witcho thick ass! This final book will reconcile Erik and his parents legacy, and yes bitches, there will be a happy ending because our boy deserves it.
Basically, I'm writing a sweeping saga. Thank you for reading in advance. Please comment or share the story, and please, link me to any other cool Black Panther stories that are written for the grown and sexy. I want to read it all.
My series title comes from a line in the Ursula Rucker spoken word/song "Brown Boy", Link:
watch?v=Jdux7lbRW30
Thank you for coming to my long ass TED talk!