Some movies entertain you. Others change you. Black Panther did both.
When it hit theaters in 2018, I knew it would be big. Marvel doesn’t really do small. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the seismic cultural shift it would create, the emotional gut punch it would deliver, or the tears I’d cry five minutes into its sequel, Wakanda Forever, because of a loss that felt so real it transcended fiction.
These weren’t just superhero movies. They were moments—historic, defiant, deeply human moments—and both left marks on the world that no vibranium shield could deflect.
Black Panther: A Throne Fit for a King
Black Panther wasn’t just a movie. It was a coronation. A celebration. A cinematic reclamation of Black excellence, African heritage, and superhero storytelling that had, for far too long, excluded faces like T’Challa’s.
Chadwick Boseman didn’t just wear the suit—he became the crown jewel of a cultural movement. His T’Challa was stoic yet empathetic, regal yet relatable. The dignity he brought to the role wasn’t performative—it was ancestral. Every glance, every breath, every moment onscreen whispered, “I know what this means.”
Wakanda, the fictional African nation untouched by colonization and rich in advanced technology, was more than just a sci-fi setting. It was an imagined sanctuary. A vision of what could have been—what still could be. And for so many Black viewers across the globe, it wasn’t just powerful. It was personal.
The film gave us Shuri, Okoye, and Nakia—Black women who weren’t sidekicks, love interests, or sacrificial plot devices. They were warriors, inventors, leaders. The story gave us Killmonger, one of Marvel’s most compelling villains, whose rage felt less like evil and more like ancestral pain that hadn’t found healing. And it gave us the now-iconic “Wakanda Forever” salute, which went from a film gesture to a global symbol of pride.
Black Panther earned every accolade it got, from box office billions to Oscar nods. But more importantly, it gave kids (and adults) the kind of hero they’d been waiting their whole lives to see.
The Real-World Loss of Chadwick Boseman
When Chadwick Boseman died in 2020, it didn’t just feel like the death of an actor. It felt like the loss of a leader. A king. The man who brought T’Challa to life had done so while privately battling cancer, all while filming some of the most physically demanding roles of his career.
His death was a gut punch. For fans, for the Black community, and for the Marvel universe. It created a vacuum no recast could ever fill—nor should it have. Because this wasn’t just about replacing a character. It was about mourning a symbol.
Marvel made the bold and, I’d argue, correct choice not to recast him. Instead, they chose to write his absence into the story—letting the grief, the silence, and the sense of loss become part of the narrative. And that brings us to Wakanda Forever.
Wakanda Forever: Grief as a Superpower
Wakanda Forever isn’t your typical superhero sequel. It’s not even really about saving the world. It’s about what happens when the world you thought you were saving falls apart.
From its opening scenes, the film confronts the loss of T’Challa head-on. There are no gimmicks. No CGI resurrections. Just silence. Funeral drums. Raw pain.
The story that unfolds centers around Shuri, played by the always-sharp Letitia Wright, as she grapples with not just the death of her brother, but the loss of faith, direction, and belief in tradition. Grief turns scientific. Ritual becomes rebellion. The person best positioned to take up the mantle of the Black Panther wants nothing to do with it—and who can blame her?
There’s beauty in how the film lets its characters sit in mourning. Queen Ramonda (a powerhouse performance by Angela Bassett) doesn’t just carry the kingdom—she carries generations of grief, loss, and fury. The pain feels generational, ancestral, and earned.
But this is still a Marvel movie, and so enters Namor, a villain as complex and textured as Killmonger before him. The film could’ve defaulted to a one-note enemy, but instead gives us a nuanced exploration of colonialism, shared oppression, and sovereignty. Wakanda isn’t just defending itself—it’s deciding what kind of power it wants to be.
The film’s climax doesn’t center around a traditional victory. It’s about mercy. Survival. And, most importantly, legacy.
Cultural Impact: More Than Capes and Crowns
Both films stand as massive cultural achievements—not just because of what they depict, but because of who they empower.
They challenge the Hollywood norms of who gets to lead a blockbuster, what stories get told, and which audiences are prioritized. The Black diaspora didn’t just see themselves onscreen. They saw themselves celebrated, elevated, and central.
Beyond race, both films deal with grief, legacy, and the weight of expectation—universal themes that hit harder when you realize the real world was grieving, too.
And in a franchise known for its interdimensional chaos and planet-punching showdowns, Black Panther offered something different: intimacy. Depth. Purpose.
Final Thoughts: Wakanda Forever, and Then Some
Watching Black Panther and Wakanda Forever back-to-back is like experiencing a full emotional arc—hope, triumph, devastation, and resilience.
They are love letters to heritage. They are conversations about leadership. They are meditations on grief. And yes, they are also badass action flicks with armored rhinos and water bombs.
But more than anything, they are reminders that even when a king is lost, his spirit can live on—in memory, in legacy, and in those who continue the fight.
So yes, Wakanda Forever wasn’t just a tagline. It was a promise.
And even in the silence left by Chadwick’s passing, that promise still echoes:
Wakanda. Forever.