the carolinas were not wakanda.
the truth asserted itself right away—with hostility, somewhat, but with insistence. the humidity clung to this place, rich with the smell of salt and sap and ancient damp, the southern heat that pressed against him like a careless touch. it scorched the earth beneath his soles. t'challa did not give it any attention. his flesh was seasoned in tougher conditions beneath wakanda's sun, and no less prepared for his grandfather’s homeland, which spared neither native nor foreigner.
still, he adapted.
the kimoyo beads adjusted his person, interweaving illusion with finesse. his hair, cut close at the crown, eased into neat locks that fell just enough to curtain half his face. his amber eyes muted to a softer, unmistakably human brown, his fangs were veiled by a natural white row of teeth—still subtly engraved with gold vibranium, though far less conspicuous.
the mysticism of his homeland would draw the wrong sort of attention here. to spare himself unnecessary questions from the locals—and to ensure his travels through america remained smooth—he chose discretion. he disguised himself.
over his panther habit the kimoyo materialized simple clothing: a tropical green shirt, thin at the seams, a winking skeleton in a magician's cap printed on, with the words 'my tribe binyah binyah' illustrated in white beneath the jaws. beige cargo shorts, ahenema slippers in gold, yellow, and green, clearly maintained, ghanaian in design. gold earrings nestled in his lobes, smaller than a pinky tip. small circular frames, gold and black bordered his face.
nothing about him screamed king, emperor, let alone space explorer.
following months of quiet research into his maternal lineage, and the current, private, happenings back at home, t'challa was led to come to this small shop in charleston. it was gullah-owned and rather hidden in its own way as it rested on a strip packed with pretentious stores holding reputable names. the coat of indigo paint was slightly weathered, but it still boasted a charm. wind chimes whispered at the door. aromas of dried herbs, antique wood, and salt trailed outside, alerting his notice before his eyes remained on the door.
he could've sworn he heard something or someone speaking within.
t'challa took a rare step of hesitation, but proceeded forward. when he entered the shop, there was nothing overtly supernatural about it. its presentation was modest and honest. shell necklaces across wooden beams, bunches of roots and leaves were neatly arranged, bottles of curiosities labeled not with prices, but names. the containers of terracotta-hued powders lined the shelves. histories far older than the unassuming, aged man currently taking inventory of them. the wooden floorboards groaned beneath his and the other patrons' footfalls.
his eyes took in the lay of the land, appreciating the value and pride the owners clearly gave their humble establishment while getting lost in its investigation. his ears were tuning out the conversations around him, trying to tune in to something... possibly more interesting than human. although he'd like to take time and bother the owners about the history of certain antiques, his mission was clear.
❝ excuse me, ma'am. my apologies. ❞ he offered, as he maneuvered behind a woman blocking his path to an assortment of medicine jars. as he did, a familiar scent suddenly wafted in his nostrils. a scent that he could never forget. curiosity sharpening, he stopped in his tracks, turning himself around to face the woman he had brushed past. when he did, it felt like time stopped, even though it didn't.
memory had pleasantly washed over t'challa.
her hair still caught light as it did in accra. her purple doe eyes still radiated mystique and great strength unfounded in her petite physicality. looks had often been deceiving with her. but that was a quality he learned not to sit on his hind legs over.
she seemed to be unaware of him as he was of her, her hands busy with some delicate item—bone, maybe, a flower, or a book. he didn't look. there was no ritual to this moment. no turning point. just the understanding that acknowledgement could dawn between them like the breath of relief.
it had been years.
ghana had been budding passions and distance and unfinished words. but promises were made, nonetheless. this felt... different. familiar ground layered with unfamiliar weight. almost shy. because t'challa did not act right away. he allowed the moment its dignity.
when the disguised t'challa spoke, it wasn't loud.
❝ by the glory of bast.. the last time we saw each other, i recall one of the promises i made was i will take you to the land of my ancestors. ❞ his voice was warm and steady, with a trace of his wakandan accent that softened. ❝ while i meant my father's land, it would seem fate would have us together again in my mother's father's home. ❞
a smile spread at the corners of his mouth.
❝ it is good to see you again, bonnie. ❞ not i missed you. not i thought of you. it is true, she left quite an impression (an understatement) on the king. but for him, this was intimacy enough. ❝ i hope you have not forgotten t'challa. ❞
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