Wakanda v. Everybody, or A Call for Speculative Mundanity
On February 16, 2018, in the midst of Black History Month, Disney Marvel studios released the first solo entry of the Black Panther franchise. Anticipating the Black speculative wonder the movie promised, my friends and I donned our most Blackcentric outfits to watch the film in community. The theater was filled with darkness, Black bodies poised in every seat, ready for the collective joy of the moment to begin. Before the opening previews graced the screen, we raised our voices, chattering noisily about the family reunion that was happening in that theater, in that city, at that time. We marveled at the expansiveness of Black spacetime compression that was this night: while we sat with expectation surrounded in the boisterous communion of our friends, Black people in other cities, in other states, in other theaters were sitting alongside us, experiencing the same moment. Though we could not see each other, we felt our shared presence. We were here. We were alive. We were ready.
Then, the movie began. We witnessed the celebration of a possible technological future where Black people thrived in a multicultural haven filled with resources to ensure Black survival despite the contemporary horrors of antiblackness. We watched in empathetic reverence as we observed a Black child lost, detached from a culture of safety, thrust into a world that chose not to love him. Many of us, too, were lost children, longing for a home we were taken from, mourning a history we were forced to forget, grieving that loss of homeplace in potentially toxic ways. Killmonger wasn’t right, but we still understood the pain that undergirded his actions, the agony of knowing that, in another universe, he might have received love instead of violence and death. His anger and despair mirrored the frustrations of those of us who had faced systemic antiblackness and yearned for a deeper connection to our cultural roots. T’Challa wasn’t right either, but we still understood why Black people might try to preserve the secrecy of freedom, hoping to create some space for Black peoples to exist without the detrimental effects of antiblack revulsion that asphyxiates the broader world. His struggle to balance tradition and futurity, isolation and outreach, kin and Other, reflected the complex responsibility that comes with fostering Black safety. The film’s portrayal of ideological conflict across continents and the teleological intricacy of freedom dreams highlighted the diverse perspectives within our own community. They were us. We were them.
As the credits rolled, we realized this would be a night that fulfilled our hopes but also left a haunting impression, a feeling that would linger at the base of our dreamscapes for years to come. It would be the night we realized that all the stars were closer, that even in the midst of Black death and extermination, we could reach the cosmos, find our power, and forge better futures. The memorable cinematic outro that rocked the theater symbolized the nearness of our aspirations, the tangible reality of our dreams, and the boundless possibility in our collective spirit. In that moment, we felt the universe open to us. We saw ourselves as part of a continuum that stretched beyond the limits imposed in a white supremacist society. We saw how we could move toward otherwise worlds, otherwise futures, otherwise selves. Because, if the stars were closer, a universe in which Black people automatically experienced love and joy and life could be within our grasp. Perhaps, one day, our dreams could become reality.
When we left the theater, we gathered in the parking lot to debrief the film and the largess of our emotional responses. We discussed the power of seeing ourselves magical, of narrating our bodies heroic. We considered the vastness of our potential, and we chatted about how this visual and auditory experience prompted us to view ourselves as stars in a broader universe, characters in a story much greater than ourselves. We admired the representation of history and culture, how it was effortlessly intertwined with a futuristic vision, encouraging us to see beyond the limitations imposed upon us. And while we admired that the larger tale was historical, realistic, and futuristic, we focused our sights on the latter. We were inspired to dream about the possibilities that lay ahead, to imagine a future where we could thrive without the shadows of oppression. And we were not alone in our daydream. Others around us – Black people in other cities, in other states, in other theater parking lots – shared the same sense of exhilaration and optimism, felt a similar call toward community and purpose in hopes that we could have our own Wakanda somewhere in or beyond this world.
And why wouldn’t we revel in this depiction of Black thriving? Black Panther designed and constructed a Black dreamscape, where liberated Black people hold power, exhibit technological prowess, and fight for justice (LaFleur, 2018). It presented us a place where Black people belong, feel safe, and create freely. It gave us a way to reexamine and reimagine our place in the world, providing an antidote to the negativity that has plagued the Black experience in the United States since our ancestors were forced to settle lands far from their own (Johnson, 2018). By purposefully transcending Hollywood’s stereotypes (e.g., mammies, jezebels, brutes, and magical negroes) and envisioning a future where Black existence isn’t contingent on white validation, the film became a cultural touchstone of speculative potential, sparking conversations about representation, identity, and the future of Black excellence (Henderson, 2023; Wallace, 2018). It encouraged us to dream big, to push boundaries, and to strive for a reality where we are free to thrive and create on our own terms. Ultimately, Black Panther was more than just a film; it was a movement, affirming our right to be protagonists in our own stories, capable of shaping our destinies and transforming our communities. It provided a much-needed counterstory to historical and ongoing antiblackness, and it gave us a blueprint that outlined the parameters of a brighter future. Black Panther was the dreamscape we yearned for. Wakanda was the manifestation of our collective dreams and aspirations materialized on the silver screen. T’Challa, the Dora Milaje, and even Killmonger were the Black representatives we begged for when so many films portrayed us as slaves, martyrs, and degenerates. They were the Black characters we longed for, when Narnia, Westeros, and Middle Earth made us monstrous or invisible, offered our bodies as fodder for white lives. Black Panther breathed life into our dreams, so it was natural to rejoice in witnessing Black excellence portrayed in such expansive ways.
But in recent years, I’ve begun to wonder if our focus was too narrow, limited by the allure of a Black utopia. I’ve begun to believe we may have overlooked the complexity of the past and present that forms the bedrock of future dreams. We may have disregarded that the future is not a linear destination, but a continuum shaped by the legacies and experiences of those who came before us and the realities we inhabit today. And so, glamoured by the temptation of Black futurity present in Wakanda, we may have unintentionally forgotten the fact that multiple Black futures are possible.
To illustrate, following the movie’s release, the depiction of Black futures appeared singular, as if every vision of Black futurity should emulate Wakanda. Critics and fans attached Black Panther to every Black magical character and Wakanda to every depiction of a safe place for Black people. R&B artist, Akon, announced a plan to build a real-life Wakandan metropolis in Senegal to provide a refuge for members of the African Diaspora (Salaudeen, 2020). WakandaCon was added to the roster of science fiction fan conventions to give Black people a space to be their authentic nerdy selves (Damore, 2018). The Wakanda forever salute became a symbol of Black brilliance and pride as evidenced by its use in sports matches, on the red carpet, and even in schools (Gander, 2018; Mohdin, 2018; Shamdeen, 2018; Weaver, 2018). Scholars across disciplines edited and authored books and articles dedicated to Wakanda and its connections to the modern world (Becker, 2023; Howard, 2021; Mattern, 2023; Pérez & Brown, 2022). Yes, Wakanda offered a powerful and uplifting image of an African paradise, but Black futures aren’t monolithic; they are diverse, multifaceted, complex. The stories of our ancestors, both their struggles and triumphs, paved the way for numerous potential futures. The present moment, with all its challenges and victories, is the soil in which we plant seeds for multiple tomorrows. Because the roads and seeds are many, there are countless paths we can take, each shaped by a spectrum of cultural experiences, historical contexts, and contemporary challenges. However, the excitement surrounding Wakandan futurity eclipsed the recognition that our dreams of freedom are manifold, with numerous routes leading to potential Black dreamlands. It overshadowed the notion that there is “no sole narrative of Blackness, just as we do not have a singularity of the Black body” (Dei, 2018, p. 121). Black Panther gave us a vision, a dream of what could be, but it was just one of many. And yet, we were fixated on this singular narrative, for better or worse.
Being a literacy scholar has taught me, however, to be wary of one-dimensional narratives, especially when the larger cultural zeitgeist seems to deify the story and demonize those who engage in meaningful critique. And so, after several years of sitting simultaneously with skepticism and joy, I began to question this vision of Black excellence within Black Panther: What impact did it have on our collective imagination? Did it inspire us to dream bigger, or did it confine our aspirations within a predetermined framework? Did this celebrated portrayal truly align with our desires for equitable Black futures (Taché, 2018)? Was this image of Wakanda the one we wanted, or was this potential future borrowed, refashioned, or co-opted from someone else’s imagination (Inayatullah, 2007)?
If this wasn’t our dream, whose dream was it, and why did Black futurity matter to them?
Of Wakanda and Colonialism
Watching the film again, after the newness of the moment dissipated and with new questions in mind, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the admiration I originally felt for Wakanda’s portrayal of Black futurity was more complicated than I realized. While Black Panther initially appeared to offer a utopian vision of Black excellence, liberated from the shackles of colonial history, I started to see that it was not entirely immune from the very systems it aimed to transcend.
Unlike many African nations that were subjected to the exploitative forces of colonial powers, Wakanda managed to shield itself from external domination, preserving its culture, resources, and autonomy. Using the cosmic mineral, Vibranium, that is embedded in the land, the Wakandans “develop[ed] technology more advanced than any other nation, but as Wakanda thrived the world around it descended further into chaos” (Coogler & Cole, 2018). Instead of falling into a similar disorder, “the Wakandans vowed to hide in plain sight, keeping the truth of their power from the outside world” (Coogler & Cole, 2018). Although colonialism is not explicitly mentioned, the film includes visuals of slave ships, tanks, and planes, suggesting that the Wakandans were aware of the plights of those around them, but instead of involving themselves in the affairs of others, they chose isolation to save their precious resource. Sadly, to maintain their seclusion, the Wakandans used colonialism to their advantage. To hide in plain sight, they created a barrier that veiled Wakanda behind the stereotypes conceptualized by the Western world. To the United States and other Western powers, Wakanda is a third world country, a poor and developing nation that is characterized by high poverty rates, increased rates of mortality, economic volatility, and political instability. In fact, as CIA agent Ross states, all the U.S. knows about Wakanda is that it is full of “Shepherds. Textiles. Cool outfits” (Coogler & Cole, 2018). In this way, Wakanda hides behind antiblack colonial sentiments of Africa as a Dark Continent–a land that is mysterious, backward, and uncivilized, and a place that is filled with cannibals, starving refugees, primitive peoples, sickly children, and morally depraved beings devoid of intelligence and culture (Dokotum, 2020; Hoskins, 1992; Wainaina, 2019). By projecting an image that aligns with Western misconceptions and stereotypes, Wakanda ensured its safety and continued prosperity at the expense of engaging with broader struggles against colonialism and exploitation, at the expense of other Black people. By choosing to remain hidden and protected, Wakanda profited from antiblack global inequalities while maintaining their own security and wealth.
While Wakanda concealed itself from Western nations via colonialist logics, the nation’s advanced technology and vast resources uniquely positioned it to aid neighboring nations suffering from the legacies of colonial exploitation and contemporary struggles. The nation could have hidden from the Western world while supporting those around them. However, despite this potential, Wakandans chose to conceal themselves from all “outsiders” who might taint the Wakandan legacy, even outsiders who could be considered kin. In one scene, Nakia tells T’Challa of the pain and violence she’s witnessed outside of Wakanda. She urges T’Challa to provide aid to suffering people as other countries do, but T’Challa refuses, arguing that sharing their resources would disrupt Wakanda’s way of life. In a later conversation, T’Challa brings Nakia’s concern to his good friend W’Kabi who says: “You let refugees in, they bring their problems with them. And then Wakanda is like everywhere else… Now, if you said you wanted me and my men to go out there and clean up the world, then I’d be all for it” (Coogler & Cole, 2018). In this response, W’Kabi suggests that “any potential Wakandan intervention will either result in being ‘overrun’ by refugees and their problems (in a political position that is starkly reminiscent of conservative American political rhetoric), or [Wakandans] will have to wage war on other countries to ‘clean them up’” (Ward, 2020, p. 19). This insistence on isolationism and the portrayals of outsiders as threats resonate with the idea that foreign, non-Western entities are inherently problematic and inferior, dehumanizing immigrants and refugees and framing them as burdens rather than people in need. Further, T’Challa’s hoarding of resources and wealth is characteristic of colonial powers, where “advanced” societies justify their dominance by claiming that their nations need to be protected from the influences of unsavory Others. Thus, purity and greatness can only be maintained through separation and exclusion because integration and cooperation would dilute the exceptionalism of the progressive society.
Even though the nation hoards resources from the Black Diaspora, it paradoxically engages in selective sharing, exemplified by its gifting of Vibranium to entities like the U.S. government for purposes such as creating Captain America’s shield. This selective sharing highlights the complexities and contradictions in Wakanda’s isolationist stance. This position is further complicated when, after a fight with a minor villain in an interrogation room, Agent Ross, a white American CIA agent, is fatally shot after jumping in front of a bullet intended for Nakia. Rather than letting the other operatives take Ross to a hospital, T’Challa stabilizes Ross’ wound and takes him to Wakanda even as his general protests.
This insistence upon stepping in to save Agent Ross is a complete contradiction of the earlier discussion of the importance of Wakanda not intervening to save others’ lives: there appears to be more concern here about white lives than black. Not only does Ross represent white (US) identity, but also, as a CIA agent, he symbolizes US institutional power: this compounds the supremacy of white US identity. The case for saving Ross lies upon his individual actions (saving Nakia): one of the ways that privilege works is in its framing of people as individuals rather than monolithic groups; Agent Ross is seen as an individual person, whereas, as seen through W’Kabi’s comment above, refugees are seen as a collective ‘they’ who have problems which threaten Wakanda. With her exclamation of ‘Great! Another broken white boy for us to fix!’ Shuri implies that this saving of white lives has happened before rather than being an isolated event in the case of Agent Ross. (Ward, 2020, p. 20).
T’Challa’s decision to save Ross underscores an alignment with colonialist ideals, where white people are often seen as valuable allies or indispensable assets, even within narratives that celebrate Black excellence and autonomy. Additionally, “framing America as a guardian of African interests camouflages the conglomeration of western forces, from global banks to multinational corporations, that have continued to leech Africa’s wealth long after the formal end of colonialism (Rickford, 2018, par. 23). Such actions suggest a willingness to bolster Western power structures, which have historically oppressed and exploited African nations, rather than using their resources to support and uplift fellow African countries. This prioritization implicitly communicates that the lives and well-being of white American men are more valuable than those of Black people who face systemic oppression.
The conflicting Wakandan value system is further communicated through its internal hierarchal structure. Whereas the nation emphasizes a Pan African narrative, the governance model mirrors patterns of oppression seen in white colonial contexts. Men predominantly occupy positions of power and relegate women to secondary roles, and queer characters present in the comics are rendered invisible (Meyer, 2020). Although Shuri is the lead scientist, Ramonda is the Queen Mother, and Okoye is the main general, their characters are not as fully developed as their male counterparts. As Moore (2019) argued:
What does Okoye do outside of her job? What are her hobbies? How did Shuri come to realize she was interested in technology? How does one become a member of the Dora Milaje? What are Ramonda’s duties as queen, since it seems she can’t run the country in the absence of a king? These questions relating specifically to the female characters remain unanswered, seemingly deemed less important than the background of the film’s villains and male side-characters (par. 15).
By predominantly centering cis-men characters, sidelining cis-woman characters, and erasing queer characters, the Wakanda centers its progress in heterosexist and cisgender ecologies, “reify[ing] both heteronormative and patriarchal cultural logics, [and] thereby remaining allegiant to whiteness” (Meyer, 2020, p. 241). That is, by presenting a society that is ostensibly advanced and progressive yet fails to include or represent queer people, the narrative upholds a narrow vision of progress that aligns with heteronormative and patriarchal norms prevalent in white supremacy culture. This selective representation undermines the purportedly inclusive and advanced nature of Wakanda, revealing underlying biases that favor traditional gender roles and exclude diverse sexual orientations. The lack of comprehensive character development for female and queer characters suggests that their stories and experiences are less valued, reinforcing a status quo that aligns more with white supremacist ideologies than with a truly egalitarian vision. The internal dynamics of Wakandan society, evident in the limited development of women characters and the eradication of queer characters, implies that advancement and success are tied to the adoption of white-centric standards. In this way, Wakandan hierarchies reinforce the notion that these colonialist standards are universally superior.
Again, Black Panther offered a groundbreaking narrative presenting an African nation “untouched” by colonialism. Again, I loved watching the movie, and I continue to revisit the film occasionally because it brings me joy to see so much Blackness on screen. But the narrative underlying the film inadvertently mirrors white hegemonic axiologies that prioritize values such as individualism, self-segregation/isolationism, gender-based hierarchies, and feigned ignorance (Bonilla-Silva et al., 2006; Miller, 2021; Moreton-Robinson, 2011; Zembylas & Matias, 2023). In this way, Black Panther “allows white supremacy to flourish” while refusing “to demonstrate either racial (black) or continental (African) solidarity (Ward, 2020, pp. 24–25). So, while I recognize that Black Panther is a groundbreaking cultural force that significantly advanced discussions of Black futurity, I also acknowledge the film’s contradictory duality. While it celebrated Blackness and offered visions of a progressive, futuristic African nation, it also included features of white supremacy culture (Okun, 2021) as integral elements in that futurity. The film succeeded in elevating Black representation within the speculative genres, but it simultaneously upheld whiteness as the fulcrum upon which futuristic representation teetered. Even though it is common knowledge that Black futuristic thriving demands a break from white imaginations that aim to erase (at best), alter, or eliminate (at worst) Black life (Blaisdell & Bullock, 2023; Dei, 2018), the film tethers Black futures to white colonialist ideologies, suggesting that Black futures need these oppressionist logics to realize utopia, to make possible a Black paradise. Ultimately, even as this popular depiction of Black futurity dislocated traditional conceptions of otherwise worlds in which the destruction and deletion of Blackness is commonplace (Dumas & ross, 2016; Morrison, 1992; Okello, 2022), it is also entwined with traditional patterns of white Western colonialist culture (Inayatullah, 2007).
Initially, when I left the theater, the whiteness embedded within this Black utopia eluded me. Even after numerous viewings, I failed to see how my imagination was being steered toward white ideals, how my vision of a Black future was tainted by white supremacy ideologies that lurked beneath Wakanda’s Blackcentric façade. While I could bemoan my lack of critical literacy skills, I’m aware that navigating whiteness is no easy task. It operates subtly and intricately, influencing our thoughts and actions even when we try to resist it. It’s systemic and historical implications can cloak themselves within seemingly progressive contexts, making it difficult to discern without intentional scrutiny. Whiteness (like Wakanda) hides in plain sight, weaving into our meaning-making processes and tacitly shaping our understandings of this world and the next. Whiteness “is in the DNA of the social system…a product of the structural condition, a psychosis caused to ensure that the system remains intact” (Andrews, 2019, p. 195). As part of society’s DNA, whiteness provides the instructions for the development, growth, reproduction, survival, and functioning of all known organisms. Through its pervasive influence, whiteness can prioritize and elevate narratives, imagery, and ideals aligned with dominant white cultural norms. This, in turn, imperceptibly dictates what is considered valuable, desirable, or even possible.
And so, as visions of Wakanda dominated the Black futurist cultural sphere, it became the epitome of Black imagination, whether we wanted it to be or not. It was omnipresent. When we sought Black futures, we looked for kings and queens, hierarchical visions of histories and futures in which we held power over others (even if that power was benevolent). When we envisioned Black otherwise worlds, we imagined isolated enclaves, places where Black people might cut ourselves off from others to preserve our resources and ways of life. When we pursued the Afrofuture, we inadvertently found possibilities tacitly supported by colonialist logics. In doing so, we overlooked the aspects of Black dreaming that were not Wakandan, dreams that existed outside the Marvel Cinematic Universe. We disregarded that some of us dream of otherwise worlds that are based in communal thriving, where hidden territories are rendered unnecessary because resources and power are shared equitably, where Black communities are integrated and flourishing in the broader world and not confined to lands behind a veil. We didn’t consider that some of us believe that each Black person is the Afrofuture “walking around on two legs. Our ancestors dreamed us up and then bent reality to create us” (Imarisha, 2015, p. 6). In other words, we discounted the fact that every Black person is a living embodiment of Afrofuturism, the realization of our ancestors’ dreams, the visionaries who will bend spacetime to ensure the lives of the next generation.
So, again, was Wakanda the Black future image we yearned for, or was it a projection borrowed from someone else’s imagination? Was it truly a picture of Black futurity, or was it an imaginative, Eurocentric manifestation of expressions and technological advancements masked behind Black faces? Unfortunately, I’ve come to realize it’s the latter. But I also believe if we allow ourselves to truly explore our collective imaginations, we can conjure futures far beyond the confines of colonialism. We can do better than Wakanda. To do this, though, we must first confront the enduring grip colonialism has had on our perceptions of space and time, how it has dislocated Black histories, places, and people, and how that dislocation continues to influence our future aspirations. Only then can we reclaim what was lost (or, at least, what was obscured), challenge current paradigms, and forge Blackcentric futures that are transcontinental, transgenerational, and transplanetary. Only then can we see how the colonial imposition on spacetime not only distorts our past but also attempts to imprison our visions of what the future can hold.
Of Colonialism and Spacetime
And control of spacetime is the aim of colonialism because control and command over space and time are key instruments of whiteness and power (Phillips, 2016; Warf, 2008).
As an example, in 1892 British Parliament held a meeting to discuss the maintenance of their domination in Uganda. While there were members who opposed continued occupation and support of the protectorate, others were in staunch support of occupying the African kingdoms. The following remarks were made by Joseph Chamberlain, Secretary of State for the Colonies and proponent of continued colonization in Ugandan (Hansard Commons, 1893):
Is it not the fact that the great proportion of the 40,000,000 people of this country earns its livelihood by the trade brought to the country in consequence of the action of our ancestors 50 or 100 years ago who did not shrink from making sacrifices, and who were not ashamed—if I may borrow the expression which has been referred to more than once to-night—to peg our claims for posterity? We are the posterity who enjoy the result of that policy; and are we to be meaner and more selfish than those who preceded us? Are we to do nothing for those who come after us?… Before his health was proposed Lord Rosebery made a speech, and in protesting against the doctrine of non-extension of the Empire he said— It is said that our Empire is large enough and does not need extension. That would be true enough if the world were elastic; but, unfortunately, it is not elastic, and we are engaged at the present moment, in the language of mining, in pegging out claims for the future. We have to consider, not what we want now, but what we shall want in the future. We have to consider what countries must be developed, either by ourselves or some other nation, and we have to remember that it is part of our responsibility and heritage to take that the world, so far as it can be moulded, shall receive the Anglo-Saxon, and not another character.
Chamberlain argued that the prosperity of their generation was due to the efforts and sacrifices of their ancestors, who actively expanded the British empire to secure future benefits for their progeny. Chamberlain suggested that, because the world is not limitless, it is essential to stake claims for future needs. In fact, he contended that the British have a responsibility and moral obligation to ensure that global development (especially on the African continent) reflects Eurocentric values. It was their duty to civilize the inferior people while simultaneously ensuring their descendants’ legacies. To refuse colonization would be selfish and neglectful. Thus, the “annexation of the space of others, outward movement of people and goods, and the expansive ideology of imperialism were spatial expressions of the active appropriation of the future” (Kern, 2003, p. 92). British colonialists intended to secure future resources and influence, ensuring that “uncivilized” and “backwards” lands aligned with Western interests, rather than those of other nations and peoples. In their mission to Eurocentrify the world, they prepared to engage in profound spatial and temporal dislocations, where the oppression of foreign rule reordered local societies, economies, and cultures to fit a white imperial agenda. The process of colonialism, then, involved not just the physical occupation of territories but also the imposition of their temporal frameworks, histories, and future projections onto the colonized regions. By regulating space, British colonialists also aimed to control time.
And control they did. Europe drew imagined boundaries and enforced its political geography on the entire African continent, giving “scant attention to the geographies of the people located there [and] collapsing more than 1,000 tribes into 50 political unites administered by different European powers” (Warf, 2008, p. 87). African tribal territories were mutated or eliminated, stripped of their cultural foundations, and then redefined according to European desires. Once reterritorialized, Western powers could dominate temporal reality and transfigure time. They erased and/or reconstructed people’s histories and classified colonized peoples as those without a past (Said, 1993). They used their supposed civilizing mission to imply that non-European societies were inherently inferior and/or backward and therefore required the guidance and control of European powers to save their lagging societies and achieve progress and modernity (Hunfield, 2022). They enforced Western time as the global standard via Western calendars, work schedules, and time management practices, thereby conquering other modes of temporal practice and fundamentally altering the rhythms of daily life in Indigenous lands. By claiming the authority to dictate when societies “could work, rest and play, the emissaries of the clock worked daily, and hourly, in their quests to bring about a sense of world-wide ‘order’, by exporting their ways of structuring the flow of time to distant lands, and by preaching to their inhabitants new ways of thinking about what time itself is” (Nanni, 2012, p. 3). Ultimately, colonial control of space-time merged spatial differences into time-based ones (Warf, 2008). It fundamentally altered both the physical world and the mental frameworks of the people within it, aligning them with Western colonial priorities and bounding them to white Western spatiotemporal logics.
By imposing Eurocentric methods of spacetime, both real and imagined, Western powers reshaped the story of the world. As Said (1993) argued
Stories are at the heart of what explorers and novelists say about strange regions of the world…The main battle in imperialism is over land, of course, but when it came to who owned the land, who had the right to settle and work on it, who kept it going, who won it back, and who now plans its future–these issues were reflected, contested, and even for a time decided in narrative…the power to narrate, or to block other narratives from forming and emerging is very important to culture and imperialism (p. xii–xiii).
The master narrative of time suggested that Black peoples were imprisoned in a “before” stage in the history of humanity, and so, Black “Others” were imagined as inferior, backwards, and as relics of the past (Hunfield, 2022; Kern, 2003; Moloi, 2023). Before Western colonialism and beyond Europe meant that African peoples were positioned as before time itself—primitive, uncivilized, and bereft of modern and future potential (Warf, 2008). While Black people were relegated to the past, Europe was positioned as the pinnacle of the present, connected to the potentials of progress, change, and futurity. This separation of past and present (and future) helped to create distinct identities for the colonizer and the colonized, and it reinforced a sense of Western superiority that justified colonial dominance over the land (Hunfield, 2022). By controlling the narrative and the flow of time, Western powers could dictate labor practices, resource management, and societal organization in a way that benefitted colonial interests. The colonized were thus rendered subjects of a narrative written by the colonizers, their temporal and spatial futures shaped by the imperial agendas of foreign powers.
The dominant narrative of Western spacetime also created a weighty sense of dislocation among colonized peoples. As Indigenous temporalities and spatial understandings were overwritten by European frameworks, colonized peoples experienced a form of temporal and cultural displacement. When people are dislocated, they struggle to envision a future in which their beingness is centered, as they are often imagining within a framework in which they are deemed “primitive, reprobate, or obsolete by conquerors, colonists, and revisionist historians” (Smith, 2023, p. 5). This cultural, historical, spatial, and temporal terrorism (Moloi, 2023) yields distressing and, potentially, disturbing imaginative possibilities. As Asante (2023) contended, “the trauma of the imagination is the death of dreams and the impossibility of seeing yourself in the future. Imperial capitalism and centralized statism both destroy the future and hand us the dirty rags of the impoverishment of our souls” (p. 182). Thus, the erasure of indigenous temporalities not only disrupts cultural continuity but also perpetuates a cycle of subjugation and alienation, exacerbating the disconnection from ancestral roots and limiting the ability to envision a future where a culturally situated existence can be validated, celebrated, possible.
According to Warf (2008), “in making time and space, we make ourselves” (p. 2), suggesting that the meanings we attribute to spacetime are deeply personal and hold subjective significance. However, as whiteness is in the DNA of our social system, entwined within the body of this world, colonized selves are often made in the image of Eurocentricity. Because of this, our visions of the past are often distorted, and our dreams of the future are often infected by white cis-patriarchal colonialist imaginations that imprison possibility. And this is the goal of colonialism: to control spacetime by breaking Indigenous temporalities, eliminating Indigenous histories, imposing white Western narratives of modernity, and enforcing Eurocentric standards on the design of potential futures. Consequently, the current spaces we occupy and future dreams we seek are constantly at risk of colonialist occupation in which our current and future dreamscapes are dislocated and replaced with a white-centric spacetime hidden behind a facade of inclusion and representation. As IndigenousAction (2020) argued:
We live the future of a past that is not our own. It is a history of utopian fantasies and apocalyptic idealization. It is a pathogenic global social order of imagined futures, built upon genocide, enslavement, ecocide, total ruination… This way of “living,” or “culture,” is one of domination that consumes all for it’s own benefit. It is an economic and political reordering to fit a reality resting on pillars of competition, ownership, and control in pursuit of profit and permanent exploitation. It professes “freedom” yet its foundation is set on lands stolen while its very structure is built by stolen lives… (p. 1).
In other words, we are living in the future of which someone dreamed, a future driven by someone’s desires, values, and influences. We are living in the dream world someone’s ancestor envisioned, imaginings constructed on stolen lands, stolen lives, stolen futures. These dreams have molded our current reality into one characterized by competition, exploitation, individualism, domination, and consumption. But just because we’ve inherited a colonialist spacetime doesn’t mean we must continue to advance the current dreamscape: “colonialism is a plague [but]…we are the antibodies” (IndigenousAction, 2020, p. 2).
And what are the antibodies that make up our anti-colonialist immune response? Where do we find the sentinels of healing to fortify our bodies, our minds, our souls? What array of experiences can help us to bolster the weaknesses that allow colonialist plagues to take hold?
I think the cure lies in a return to the self, an ancestral journey to fetch what has been taken because, as Moloi (2023) argued, the only hope for Black people in a “world hegemonized by colonial lineage…is for [us] to find [our] roots and be relocated to [our] own center. From that center [we] will be able to correctly understand [our] own identity and fulfill [our] destiny” (Moloi, 2023, p. 72). The only hope for any of us to challenge the imposition of colonialism is to take ownership of our own spatiotemporal existences, to locate and reassemble the pieces of ourselves strewn across spacetime, to find our before – the ancestral legacies within us and the spirit before and beyond us.
Of Stories and Reclamation
And what better way to uncover the particularities of an existence intentionally obscured by the shadows of Eurocentrism than to center the stories of those minoritized in a colonialist system? Again, “narrative plays such a remarkable part in the imperial quest” (Said, 1993, p. xxii) because stories (true or not) shape our perceptions, aspirations, and spatiotemporal locations. Because they shape what we see and believe, the colonial project relies heavily on controlling global narratives and suppressing alternative stories. These habitual colonized patterns of perception can make us believe the status quo is inevitable or natural, that the existing conditions are the best possible outcomes in an imperfect world, that any alternative visions of reality should be unexplored or dismissed as extreme or unbelievable (Delgado, 1989). Ultimately, colonialism seeks to regulate the global story to maintain its dominance and legitimacy and preserve its hold on spacetime, ensuring that people “will continue to struggle in the present to see themselves other than through the eyes of their open enemies” (Smith, 2023, p. 66). It aims to embed oppressive logics into the structural foundation of society by creating fantasies, superstitions, and science fictions about the people who are minoritized in a colonialist system.
Yet, while stories can be wielded to manipulate our understandings of space, time, history, and culture, they can also serve as powerful tools to disrupt Eurocentric domination. Narratives foster novel perspectives, perceptions, understandings, and expressions by dismantling universalist ideas, freeing minoritized peoples from the grip of dominant stories (Joseph, 2024; Solórzano & Yosso, 2002). Beyond merely responding to colonialist narratives, they offer ways to imagine worlds anew and engage in an anticolonial praxis. In this context, “storytelling genealogies and practices become forces of possibility, altering and disrupting the racial-colonial-heteropatriarchal manipulations of scale, space, land, and power” (Vasudevan et al., 2023, p. 1731). Thus, stories (represented as poems, quilts, songs, conversations, parables, debates, memories, arts, riddles, proverbs, and playful language) not only convey meaning and evoke emotion, but they also help us to make place, make home, make community, make self (Christian, 1987; McKittrick, 2021). In this way, sharing, telling, listening to, witnessing, giving testimony through, and hearing stories are not just acts of disclosure; they are ways to combat colonialism by empowering minoritized peoples to locate ourselves, foster community and solidarity, preserve cultural heritage, and imagine new possibilities for our collective futures.
As Wynter & McKittrick (2015) reminded us, we are a storytelling species. Story is in our lifeblood, held within the genes that make up our DNA. If whiteness is in the DNA of the social system and colonialism is in the DNA of spacetime, then story is the hereditary material that makes us who we are. Our existence is woven from the threads of countless tales. Each story we tell is a link in a long change of our being, connecting us to the past and extending into the future. It is through stories that we pass down knowledge, values, and traditions across generations despite the prevalence of colonialist logics. It is through story that we author ourselves into existence even as colonialism attempts to erase our past, present, and future. Stories serve as vessels for cultural memory and collective identity, connecting us to our ancestors and guiding our futures. In this way, storytelling is not only a means of resistance but also an essential part of our humanity, shaping our understanding of ourselves, the world around us, and the worlds to come. So, as we navigate a world overshadowed by hegemonic forces of whiteness and colonialism, stories become our sanctuary and weapon. Each story is an act of defiance, challenging the monolithic and monocultural histories imposed by colonizers. Each story is a deconstruction of the mythologies of imperialism, revealing the complex human experiences colonialism attempts to erase. Each tale is an archive, a blueprint of our identity that can teach us who we are, who we were, where we come from, and what we might aspire to be. Story is in our genes: “We are word made flesh. But we make words. So we can make ourselves anew” (Gumbs, 2020, loc. 99). In a world where oppressive structures seek to fragment and erase, our stories are the indomitable threads that weave us back together, ensuring that we remain whole and profoundly human. By embracing storytelling as an anticolonial tool, we not only preserve our heritage but also actively resist and dismantle the forces that seek to undermine it. By embracing stories, we embrace ourselves. By embracing our narrations, we embrace (im)possibility (Alagraa, 2018; Wynter & McKittrick, 2015).
And even as I knew about the storied nature of humanity and the importance of narrating oneself, it was difficult to narrate a story devoid of the oppressionist narratives that infiltrated my lungs as soon as breath was possible. I needed help, so I first looked for guidance in the words of my academic othermothers: Gumbs, Dillard, Mutere, Mazama. I listened and heard the wisdom in their words.
Dr. Gumbs (2020) taught me the power of community, of home. She said:
when you faint, go back to that circle of people. that circle of people, you know who they are. you might not know their names, you can trust all their faces, they will take you to places that have what you need. if you fail, channel back to that circle of people, that circle of people who share all you do. those spirits dressed up in the glow of your victory, the light of your longing they will be there still. when you want, go home to that circle of people. that circle of people laying hands and saying prayers. anytime recognize it, that circle of people. they are always there. you are theirs (loc. 2176).
From her, I learned that I have a circle of support that embodies the essence of belonging and unwavering love. This understanding helped me to dismantle ideologies of isolation imposed by colonialism and reconnected me to a broader shared humanity. It also led me to wonder what it would mean to narrate futures in which someone claims you even when they don’t know your face or name. What would it mean to be loved for all that you are, all that you are not, and all that you might be?
Dr. Dillard (2009) spoke of the vast landscape of memory we all carry, a landscape that exists within and beyond the human, extending throughout the universe. She explained:
And as human beings, we have an unlimited capacity for memory, all kinds of memory. Sensory memory, of things touched and felt, sensual and alive. Physical memory, of pleasure and pain, of bodies stretched and moved in ways we had not thought possible. Spiritual memory, of knowing the energy of God/dess and seeking to find ways to wase our separation from the Creator and from one another. Emotional memory, the feelings of sadness, happiness, envy, hatred, to name a few. And we have cultural memory, memory of our unique and collective ways of being on this earthly journey (p. 220).
Her words illuminated the importance of embracing every aspect of my past, the tactile and the ephemeral, the joyous and the painful. By acknowledging the fullness of memory, I could create narratives that honored every facet of my existence. In honoring my own existence, I considered what memories make up my unique and communal ways of being, knowing, existing?
Dr. Mutere (2023) introduced me to the concept of Hantu, a nonlinear Africa-centered consciousness of spacetime. She clarified:
Hantu is the category of space-time that, like the term “AfroFuturism,” responds to questions of where and when but from within a nonlinear Africa-centered consciousness of the quantum field. In contrast to Eurocentrism’s three-dimensional matrix of the material world where the fourth and fifth dimensions of “time” and “spirituality” are constructed linearly and regulated from within compartmentalized hierarchic arrangements, the Bantu universe is realized as a dynamic space-time continuum of several interactive dimensions and forces at once. It’s a consciousness in which, for instance, environmental events accompanying one’s birth would inform a child’s traditional naming, thus encoding and protecting their organic/sovereign place, purpose, and journey in Africa’s space-time continuum (p. 33).
This perspective shattered the rigid, compartmentalized view of reality imposed by Eurocentric thought and offered a more fluid, interconnected understanding of the universe. Through her teachings, I learned to see my life not as a linear progression but as a series of interconnected events and experiences that informed and enriched each other. From her words, I learned that I could narrate my story with a greater sense of coherence and depth, recognizing the intricate patterns that shape(d) my journey through this world. I learned that, maybe, the binary and linear timescape constructed by Eurocentrism could be dismantled, that the future, as I’ve always thought about it, was more complicated that I once thought.
Dr. Mazama (2002) spoke of the ontological unity of all existence, a shared energy that permeates and lives within all things. She noted:
the major articulation of African metaphysics is the energy of cosmic origin that permeates and lives within all that is—human beings, animals, plants, minerals, and objects, as well as events. This common energy shared by all confers a common essence to everything in the world, and thus ensures the fundamental unity of all that exists. Let us note in passing that this ontological unity is a very ancient feature of African cosmology… Let us note that this principle of ontological unity has at least two immediate and profound implications, that is, the principle of connectedness of all that is, based on a common essence; and the principle of harmony, based on the organic solidarity and complementarity of all forms. And what is the source of that energy that the Yoruba call Ashe? It is God itself. Everything that is shared in that divine essence and is, as a result, sacred (p. 219 – 220).
Her words taught me to see myself as part of a larger, sacred whole, where every being and event is interconnected. They taught me that harmony and solidarity were possible in a pluriversal spacetime. They reminded me that multiple futures are possible, and while there are some futures that cannot exist because they negate the existence of others, there is room in the universe for an expansive futurity.
Dr. Gumbs (2020) further challenged me to imagine a life free from the pressures of proving myself, of seeking recognition or validation. She asked:
what if you were reborn with nothing to prove. you didn’t need anything named after you or anyone to notice. what if you were reborn with nothing to give and you gave it happily and didn’t seek more. what if you were born living just the one life, with no pressure to erase or uplift those that came before you. what if you were born just to dance and sing and cry with the ones who adored you and the ones who deplored you. what if you were born with keys and found nothing was locked and your spirit wasn’t shocked by open doors. what if you were born with absolutely nothing to prove. nothing to reach for or to store. what if you were born with nothing, less than nothing. meaning, more” (loc. 2228)
Her questions prompted me to consider a narrative where my worth was inherent, not contingent on external achievements or approval. This liberated me to embrace my story as is, to find joy in the present moment, and to honor the intrinsic value of my being. It allowed me to imagine a world in which I owe nothing, where my only goal was to exist in communion with other existences.
In the quiet moments of reflection, I let their teachings seep into my consciousness, allowing their wisdom to dismantle the internalized narratives that had long constrained me. Each word they spoke was an invocation, calling forth the power within me to reshape my story, to reclaim my voice. I found solace in the rhythmic pulse of their voices, a cadence that felt both ancient and immediate, reverberating through the depths of my being. Their stories were not just narratives; they were lifelines, complexly plaited fibers that connected me to a lineage of spirit and wisdom. I learned to embrace the intricacy of my own existence, to acknowledge the scars left by oppressive forces while also celebrating the power that emerged from those wounds. I learned to find the cosmos in my words, the ethereal in my being, the stars in my community, the universe in my hometown.
I experienced family gatherings, from family dinners to birthday parties, transforming into sacred spaces, imbued with spiritual resonance and enriched by stories of history and hope. I traced the contours of my identity through the echoes of ancestral narratives, listening to their struggles and triumphs as they etched profound meaning into my sense of self. I heard elderly relatives share tales that bridged reality and myth, and I marveled at how these stories held truths that transcended time—lessons on perseverance, warnings against complacency, and dreams that defied limitation. In the uplifting melodies of hymns and the fervor of sermons, I felt reverberations of liberation ringing through sanctuaries alive with collective spirit. These were not mere gatherings but havens where faith and activism intertwined, forging pathways towards justice and hope. Within those hallowed walls, past and present struggles were reframed as catalysts for a brighter tomorrow, a testament to the enduring strength found in unity and shared purpose. At the heart of community events like Juneteenth celebrations, I experienced a mosaic of expression—performances that stirred the soul, speeches that demanded attention, and activities that beckoned everyone to participate in shaping a future rooted in equality. These events weren’t mere commemorations but affirmations of our collective journey towards freedom, where cultural heritage served as both anchor and compass. In witnessing these various displays of literacy in my hometown, I discovered that our stories were not static relics but living legacies, repositories of wisdom that empowered us to imagine and forge new horizons. Each tale spun a narrative yarn connecting past battles to future aspirations, urging us to embrace complexity and envision possibilities beyond the confines of the present. In these moments, I learned that “our stories of black worlds and black ways of being can, in part, breach the heavy weight of dispossession and loss…because these narratives (songs, poems, conversations, theories, debates, memories, arts, prompts, curiosities) are embedded with all sorts of liberatory clues and resistances” (McKitterick, 2021, p. 7). In going home, I learned how the everyday processes involved in the work of story–creating (by storytellers), narrating (telling the story), listening (actively receiving the story), hearing (passively receiving the story), reading (interpreting the story), and sometimes “unhearing” (choosing not to listen or ignoring aspects of the story) (p. 6)–are how we make ourselves intelligible, how we make worlds anew, how we make and unmake the future. Our everyday lives are vital to our futurity.
In the return to myself, to my ancestral roots, to my center, I came to recognize that decolonization isn’t just about challenging historical injustices or current brutalities–it’s about reclaiming our narratives, reclaiming our spaces, reclaiming our time, reclaiming the very fabric of our beings from the grip of colonial control. I learned that recovering spacetime and uplifting Blackcentric futures wasn’t about finding Wakanda in some far-off future, but finding the speculative right now. It’s about recognizing and honoring the wisdom of our ancestors, whose knowledge systems were deliberately erased to control the past, present, and future. It’s about finding, creating, and inhabiting spaces where Black joy, creativity, and brilliance can thrive, free from the constraints of a colonialist imposition that seeks to limit, define, or deny us. It’s about amplifying those silenced voices and narratives that might offer alternative perspectives and different truths – ones that challenge and reshape our understanding of history, culture, futurity, and humanity itself. It’s about finding the speculative that exists around us, within us.
Decolonizing the future is about integrating our spiritual practices and cultural traditions into our daily lives, acknowledging the interconnectedness of all things, and living in harmony with the energy that permeates the universe (Mazama, 2002). It’s about forging connections with our communities, leaning on each other for support and strength, and recognizing that our individual journeys are part of a larger, collective movement toward liberation (Gumbs, 2020). It’s about embracing the full spectrum of our memories and understanding that our sensory, physical, spiritual, emotional, and cultural memories are all vital components of our futurity (Dillard, 2009). It’s about adopting a nonlinear view of time and space, allowing us to see our past, present, and future as interconnected and dynamic, informing and enriching one another (Mutere, 2023). Ultimately, it’s about crafting collective and interwoven stories that reflect the complexity, beauty, and power of our existence, stories that honor our past, celebrate our present, and boldly envision our future. It’s about accepting a collective stewardship of spacetime, understanding that even if colonialism attempts to control space, time, and story, we have the power to narrate ourselves into existence, to create a future from a past and present that is our own.
Of Afrofuturism and Speculative Mundanity
Dillon (2012) argued that, by engaging in cultural processes that allow us to return to ourselves, we can figure out how we are personally affected by colonization, abandon the emotional and psychological weight imposed by colonial violence, and reconnect with our historical and ancestral roots. She further contended that once we acknowledge and exorcise the colonialist project, we have the power change the future. I found this truth in the most unexpected of places. It wasn’t confined to traditional speculative elements (i.e., magical meteorites transforming the land, scientific innovations that cloak entire countries, the creation of new worlds because this one isn’t worth saving, or magic-wielding heroes who choose individualism over community). Instead, it was present in the mundane moments of daily life–freedom dreams discussed over barbecue and beer, familial histories embedded in spades table trash talk, imagined futures inserted in church songs, and ancestral communion within a communal event, all actions that subtly but powerfully reclaim and recover the past, counter negative and elevate positive aspects that exist in the present, and create alternative futures. It was in the common choices we make to honor our heritage, the simple acts of resistance and retrieval of memory, the varied stories elders pass down to younger generations, and the songs sung during communal events. Each of these acts (and others) cumulatively (re)shape our world and our future. Each of these acts help us to (re)claim and recover space and time from the clutches of Eurocentricity. I found the future in the everyday, in the quiet, persistent reclamation of our narratives through the mundane.
Of course, it might seem unconventional to discuss the mundane alongside futurity, as everyday occurrences are rarely associated with the concept of what is yet to come. However, it is precisely these overlooked aspects of daily life that hold transformative power. So often, we ignore the mundane because we consider it ordinary and unremarkable, but the disregard for the ordinary is what perpetuates colonialist futures. Colonialism thrives on our disregard of the everyday, feeds on our indifference toward the common, lodges itself so deeply in our daily existence that we struggle to distinguish between colonialist dreamscapes and our own envisioned futures. And in our disregard, colonialism succeeds in its goal: “societies drained of their essence, cultures trampled underfoot, institutions undermined, lands confiscated, religions smashed, magnificent artistic creations destroyed, extraordinary possibilities wiped out” (Césaire, 2001, p. 43, emphasis in original). It achieves its aim to give us futures that we may not want, futures in which colonialism is still alive and well, still stamping its feet on the necks of Black peoples. It fulfills its purpose by controlling narratives until we begin to tell ourselves that hierarchy, patriarchy, and white supremacy is the only possible way to achieve Black utopias, that we begin to believe that colonialism in a Black face is the only potential future we could ever hope to imagine. But when we focus on the mundane, we reclaim time and space from the colonial narrative. We recognize the importance of our own stories, cultural practices, and communal bonds, ensuring that they aren’t overshadowed by Eurocentric ideals.
Because “racism and structural oppression cannot be wished away or inverted by magical thinking but require consistent efforts to be solved” (B. Chattopadhyay, 2021, p. 13), the mundane becomes crucial, as it is within everyday actions that we develop resistance against the toxins of historical oppression, racism, and marginalization. It is within our everyday stories that colonialism loses its hold on our history, our modernity, our future. These everyday elements are the guardians of cultural existence and the catalysts for future innovation and empowerment. They help us to neutralize the adverse effects of systemic injustices and make space for a thriving, equitable future.
Contagious diseases, like colonialism, affect us daily. Therefore, we need common, everyday mechanisms to fight against the infection. Normalized oppression demands ordinary responses, commonplace justice, and conventional resistance. Just as antibodies defend our physical forms by remembering past infections and preparing for future contaminants, the mundane helps us to preserve and honor the histories and dreams of our ancestors. It is the mechanism through which language, tradition, and history is protected, thereby fortifying us against colonialist-supported erasure. Our ordinary yet profound practices ensure our survival, safeguard our continued existence, and certify our futures. Thus, the ordinary is not merely routine; it is a radical act of survival and a visionary blueprint for the future.
And, I think, if I could construct a schematic for a Black future built from a collective of historical legacy, Blackcentric dreamscapes, and mundane meaning-making practices, Wakanda wouldn’t be the foundation for my ideal Afrofuture. Despite its impressive representation of Blackness, the colonialist undertones in Wakanda’s narrative make it a dream for a select few, leaving many Black folks struggling for existence. In my vision, I see the joys of community, the power in preserving the collective, the possibility of memory and history, the bliss of multiplicity. I envision a world where the resources are shared, no matter how small, and there’s a commitment to the advancement of all people, both kin and beyond. Instead of the isolated realities of Wakanda, I dream of an interconnected pluriverse, a cooperative of worlds and times and spaces brimming with different cultures, histories, and identities working together to for everyone’s thriving. As Sahana Chattopadhyay (2024) eloquently put it:
Dismantling the hegemony requires embracing and embodying all that the hegemony is not. This means recognizing our inherent interconnectedness and interrelatedness, eschewing all fallacious narratives of separation and otherization, rejecting the productization of every facet of life, and pathologizing of all that makes us human — kindness, care, empathy, connection. This means untangling ourselves from hegemony-imposed notions of separation, hyper-individualism, endless consumption, and extreme fear of the unknown. This means escaping — even if occasionally — from hegemony’s narrow confines to weave other tales of togetherness. This means becoming conscious of all the tools in hegemony’s arsenal, and refusing to be indoctrinated (par. 25).
For me, refusing indoctrination means deeply analyzing the colonialist narratives within Wakanda; returning to self, home, and community to find new stories; and embracing the mundane aspects of Black life as essential to Black futurity. Resisting indoctrination means acknowledging the tools of colonialism – the control on spacetime, the hierarchies, the individualism, the antiblackness. But it also means realizing that we have tools at our disposal, tools that we must notice, name, and nurture the futurity in the current moment.
Ultimately, the Afrofuture I dream of is one where Blackness is not constrained by narrow definitions or limited representations. It is a future where the Black experience is multifaceted and dynamic, where we are free to explore and express our identities in all their complexity. It is a future where our stories are told authentically, where our communities are strong and vibrant, and where our collective efforts lead to a world that is just and compassionate for all. It is a dreamscape where Black people are seen for the genius of our everyday existence and not demonized for refusing colonialist, white-centric ideologies. Our future lies in recognizing our inherent value and potential, in embracing our interconnectedness, and in working together to dismantle the barriers that seek to divide and diminish us.
And, yes, Wakanda is one potential future, but in a pluriversal cosmos, Wakanda might not be our collective forever, for it is one possibility in a universe of many potentialities, in a cosmos where we can decide…right now… that our future will be different.
