Black Panther Written with Ugandan-American Son in Mind

“Baba tell me a story”
“Which one?”
“The story of home”
Ryan Coogler’s script had me at “Baba”.

An adventure story loomed in the air, framed not by a fire place but cinema surround sound. Like magic I escaped the building and travelled on a journey far far away from Washington D.C to Teso and Kigezi via Kampala. First off, I’m not familiar with anything “Marvel” – Justice League, Thor, Guardians of the Galaxy – clueless! I endured the winding line of excited theater goers determined to break the box office because of hype. The Black Panther movie had just been released. The 40 minutes I stood in line eased on like a breeze thanks to Zadie Smith’s novel “White Teeth”. What was this #WakandaForever business? I had to find out.

Now, back to the story. T’Challa’s (Black Panther) eager pre-teen voice makes a request – simple yet profound and multifaceted – “The Story of home”. It took me back in time to an evening two years ago when seated at the family dining table in an obscure corner of Maryland my 12-year-old son asked “Daddy, where did we come from?” My quick, short answer would have been “Uganda!” but my son in his wisdom knew the source of satisfactory answers, answers that quenched his thirst for belonging, for identity – his father. As he is wont to do, his father with undivided attention begun at the beginning – the Luo migration into East Africa. The journey of Nilotic ethnic groups along the Nile river from lower Egypt, Sudan, Congo to the places they settled in East Africa. While he explained his linage up to his father and mother who originated from Tororo and Kisoro respectively, I spoke of my parent’s linage from Usuk and Kumi finally settling in Serere. My son listened with eager attention, he sat up and pushed his chest forward. The building blocks for this discussion rested on our faith. His father explained that more than people and places his identity should be rooted in Jesus Christ. Our personal relationship under the Lordship of Jesus informs our value systems.

Black Panther alludes to historic events; the bronze artifacts looted in 1897 from the kingdom of Benin (now southern Nigeria) exhibited in a London museum and current issues; the Chibok girls kidnapped by Boko Haram. But at its core the movie settles around personal identity, family and exile, politics and power struggles. Personal identity – the purpose of one’s existence in relation to their surroundings. An issue my father handled with deliberate effort; the dusty road trips up to Usuk and Agaria, visiting home after home, the chicken slaughtered, the millet bread mingled, now make sense. While the elders sat around a pot of ajono, we were left to stare at children who were introduced as relatives. The barriers of discomfort soon melted and we became life-long friends. Now, tracing actual bloodlines is like splitting hairs – we are siblings to all intents and purposes and we have a sense of belonging.

Growing up in the American culture my son’s concerns are complex. As his parents, born and bred in Uganda, our reference points differ and he struggles to understand our views. His dark skin connects him with a racial history with which he doesn’t necessarily identify. As teenagers on a quest for self, a discussion brewed among friends at school – where was he from if he wasn’t Black American? There were so many layers. As a result, their growing minds begun to question the differences and similarities between black with American roots and black with African roots. He needed to curve out his niche with the knowledge that one thread run deep – he was a young black male in America.

As memories of his experience in Uganda and his life in America were juxtaposed: feeding goats in grandpa’s back yard, being chased by a rooster in Serere’s afternoon sun. His numerous uncles and aunts who send him birthday wishes every year. Playing video games, attending school with friends who look as different as they come, the claustrophobic space he occupies with his sister and Ugandan parents, an awareness of his skin color – all inform his identity. As he grows up in a different time and place he is reminded that all these experiences shape his unique but centered definition of self.

The question at the end of the Black Panther movie is “WHO ARE YOU?” I should hope my son will embrace and define his unique identity as a Christian, born in Uganda and bred in America. When asked his favorite character in Black Panther he said the villain – Killmonger. A partial reflection of himself perhaps?

Good movie – thought provoking. #WakandaForever

Valentine's Day And It's Troubles

The clock struck midnight! She sat up in bed, “Era if he doesn’t come!”.
By 12:10 am she was frantic. A few roommates surrounded her bed to provide reassurance. There she sat like a queen surrounded by her subjects.

“He should be at the door anytime now” she said. We all turned towards the still wooden frame. No knock, no twist of the handle – just a door held under the gaze of twelve eyes.
What had brought on our roomies distress? Was it her birthday? “It’s valentine’s day!” I was told. She awaited red roses and chocolates from her boyfriend at the stroke of midnight.

My bunk mate and I exchanged glances, what did we know about such matters?

“I swear!! If he doesn’t show up, he is going to see!!” She threatened.

I imagined the poor soul traipsing all over Wandegeya in search of red roses, his legs suddenly quickening up Makerere hill with each telepathic threat. Or was he twiddling his fingers waiting for her to send him a message of her love?

It was late. We turned off the lights. She was left to contemplate her boyfriend’s mysterious absence in a pre-cellphone era. Did this mean he loved her any less?

As the sun came up, I hoped her bed would be cushioned with roses so high she’d be lost in their midst. Alas there she lay fast asleep – her legs in the “get-set” position. Anxiety spread like the flu as the girls stirred, each one secretly hoping their boyfriends had received the memo. They surrendered to curiosity occasionally peeking out the window.

Across the hall, another student lay in bed, she’d been carried in two days earlier. Something about heavy bleeding or was it a miscarriage? It was complicated.
Red roses, red…

I picked my books for the day, I would not be back for a while. Well I had ... lectures.
“Dear God, please let someone bring me a valentine’s card.”

The day had to end, I had to return. A girl handed me a red envelop. “Huh?! For me?” I asked. “Is this your name?” She asked, probably wondering why I feigned surprise. From whence did the card come? What did he look like? I interrogated. “He asked if I was a first-year student and if I knew someone by your name. I said I did. He gave me this card”. Off she went.

“Signed David.” David who? I mentally lined up all the David’s I knew.
David 1: No! That’s so and so’s boyfriend.
David 2: Nah!
David 3: Not in touch.
David 4: Still a kiddo.
I cancelled all the David’s out and I still had this beautiful card in my hands. Perhaps that was the idea behind the day.

My dramatic roomie had calmed down, her bedside bamboo rack bright with flowers. A beautiful valentines card stood paper-arms wide proclaiming her boyfriend’s unending love.

He took her out to dinner that night. All our other roommates had dinner dates too, that left just me and my bunk mate. I tucked the card into my suitcase, we made ourselves dinner and talked late into the night.
Perhaps some February 14th we would be taken out to dinner too.

 “Love, a word that comes and goes, but few people really know what it means to really love somebody” Kirk Franklin – God’s Property

Mowzey Radio and Marvin Gaye: Singers Cut From the Same Cloth

“Marvin Gaye is Shot and Killed; Pop Singer’s Father Faces Charges”: The New York Times April 1, 1984.

“Uganda's Mowzey Radio dies after 'pub brawl'”: BBC Africa February 1, 2018

Two music icons, two news headlines 34 years apart.

When I read the news of Mowzey Radio’s death, my mind was quickened to the death of Marvin Gaye. Marvin Gaye was a black American soul singer and song writer of the 60’s and 70’s. He helped shape the sound of Motown music. He wrote songs like “Let’s Get It On”, “Midnight Love” and the famous “Sexual Healing”.

Marvin Gaye’s death shocked the world. He was shot dead by his father. They had a quarrel, Marvin fought and beat up his 70-year-old father. His father, wounded and humiliated by his son shot him dead a day before Marvin’s 44th birthday. Marvin struggled with substance abuse and depression.

Mowzey Radio’s death continues to shake his family and fans like an endless earthquake. He got into a bar fight when “a man came out of nowhere” lifted him up and threw him to the ground. He sustained a head injury, lost consciousness and within six days he breathed his last. A few short days after his 34th birthday. It is said he struggled with alcohol abuse and a shot temper.