The venom of hatred gnawed at his heart. When he saw Ulysses Klaue fire rockets at that primitive thatched hut, he made no move to stop the Vibranium smuggler from slaughtering his own people. Arrogance—the arrogance of the Wakandans cut deeply into him. As a Wakandan raised in a Black American community, Erik Killmonger had always known that his father possessed two different identities: one was an ordinary poor Black man forever trapped in the neighborhood, destined to sink into drugs, gang wars, and life imprisonment; the other was a Wakandan heir to the throne with a noble status. His father had abandoned the latter and chosen the former, forging an entirely new path that could solve the problem at its root.
Even now, Erik Killmonger still believed his father had been incomparably great.
His father had given up the material comforts that came with his status and devoted himself to saving countless ordinary Black Americans. He taught young Black people science, led the adults in the community away from crime and drugs, and even personally took part in gang conflicts to purge criminals from Black neighborhoods. Erik Killmonger had never forgotten the gunfire beyond the Black district, nor the bullets that struck the walls only centimeters from his head. He had been young then, trembling beneath his blanket, while his father held his head high, weapon in hand, and walked out to drive off those Black gangs.
His father taught the young Black people in the community, who had grown listless amid the hippie movement, how to earn money through legitimate means. He taught them the right theories and ideals, especially the belief that armed struggle was necessary when the time came, and that only through it could racial discrimination truly be overturned and Black people gain real rights.