The African Immortal Chronicles

"I'm a Demon, taking out fiends is what I do," I said quietly as I sat across from the police detectives, in this cold 'interview' room, somewhere inside the Toronto Police Service headquarters. The two detectives, a burly, fifty-something white guy named Doyle Connors, and a slender, dark-haired Latina named Marissa Lopez, exchanged a smile and shook their heads, and I sighed deeply, for I knew it was going to be a long night.

"Mr. Soyinka, don't waste our time, please, we're not in your classroom, you were found near the corpse of a woman who had been ritualistically murdered, either you did it or you know who did," said Detective Connors, and I looked into the bald, chubby dude's frosty blue eyes, and licked my lips. I cannot stand being in here for another minute, but I force myself to be calm.

This bozo sitting across from me smelled of aftershave, and he has recently taken a dump. Oh, and earlier, he ate potato chips which he washed down with a Pepsi. I can smell all kinds of things, due to my enhanced senses. Perks of being a Demon, I guess. As I sat there, being questioned by those damn cops for essentially doing my job, I found myself wondering if there is more to life than that. Centuries of divine servitude has turned me cynical. My thoughts drifted to the past, and I found myself cursing the day I got this assignment...

My employer, Lord Ogun, God of War of the Yoruba faith, has sent me on the trail of one of his enemies. A rogue Orisha named Eleggua. I don't know why Lord Ogun picked me because the Orishas are immortal, and thus next to impossible to slay. Indeed, they are one step below the Yoruba Gods themselves and as such, far above my pay grade but my employer isn't exactly the kind of person you can say no to, at least not without repercussions.

"Eleggua and his goons have defied me for the last time, bring me his head," said Lord Ogun, as I stood before his throne. Over six feet tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, with dark skin, thick curly dark hair and soulful brown eyes, the West African war deity looked exactly the way many mortal artists envisioned him. Clad in golden white armor, with a flowing red cape which he regularly bathes in the blood of his enemies, Lord Ogun cut an imposing figure.

"It shall be done, my Lord," I replied with a curt nod, and Lord Ogun smiled and stroked his goateed chin. Beside him stood a tall, majestic young woman with a thick Afro and mahogany skin, clad in a flowery green and gold robe and orange cape. Try as I might, I couldn't resist glimpsing at Lady Iyalode, also known as the Goddess Oshun, Queen of the Heavens and wife of Lord Ogun. Such loveliness is simply hard to resist...

"Go with our blessings, Soyinka, I wish you fortune in your mission," Lady Iyalode said, and her soft yet powerful voice set me on edge in a way Lord Ogun's booming voice never could. For Lady Iyalode is a woman of great wisdom and beauty, and she speaks to all creatures, from spirits and demons to mortals and her fellow Yoruba deities with a kindness and understanding that have won most of us over. Lord Ogun is feared for his great power and fiery temper. Lady Iyalode is almost universally loved for her beauty, wisdom and kindness.

"My dearest lady, I shall not disappoint thee," I replied, and I genuflected, before rising and looking upon the smiling Goddess once more. I bowed my head before His and Her Majesty, and after being dismissed, I walked out of the vast hall. Lord Ogun's floating Palace occupies a particularly impressive region of the Abode of the Gods. It was deeded to Lord Ogun and Lady Iyalode by Olodumare the Creator himself, on their wedding day.

The Abode of the Gods exists on a dimension parallel to the planet Earth, and it's a place where mortals are seldom allowed, though now and then particularly sensitive mortals with psychic abilities visit it in their dreams. As I said before, I am a Demon. A long time ago, there was a war between the Yoruba Gods and Goddesses, and the various hosts of Demons. The Kishi, the Ninki Nanka, the Grootslang and various monsters from all over Africa fought against the Gods...and lost.

The Gods captured most of these beings and banished them to the Netherworld, a realm of darkness and suffering. Why on earth was I spared, you might ask? There's a good reason for that. You see, I am a Half-Breed. My father was an Obia, one of a race of anthropomorphic, shape-shifting monsters that roamed the world in ancient times, preying upon ordinary mortals.

While visiting the City of Odeda in the Ogun State region of Nigeria, my father met a young Yoruba woman named Fabiola Soyinka, fell in love with her, and seduced her. They had little old me. This was many centuries ago, long before the first European colonist ever set foot in West Africa. What became of my father? No idea, and at this point, I honestly don't particularly care.

Fast forward a few centuries, and I am leading the good life. I live in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, where I teach African Studies at Carleton University. If you were to look at me, you'd see a big and tall black man in his early thirties. I've published several books about African mythology and become a multi-millionaire a few years back. A lot of the older, whiter faculty at Carleton University dislike my superstar professor status, but I don't care.

Now, according to an old decree, the Yoruba Gods cannot stomach the idea of nonhumans living on the planet earth in modern times. There's a lot of monsters and nonhumans living among the human populace, disguised as ordinary men and women. The Gods cannot come to the mortal realm to get rid of the most evil of these monsters, because of ancient rules, blah and more blah. Which is where I come in. As a half-human, half-Demon, I have a right to be here since, well, I was born here on the earthly plane.

I have something of a deal going on with Lord Ogun. I track down and destroy supernatural criminals, especially the ones from the West African world, and he doesn't send me back to the Netherworld. You see, when I first saw the light of day, in the year 1377 A.D. I had no idea that gods and monsters existed. I honestly thought I was the only one of my kind.

"My son, you are destined for great things, let no one stand in your way," that's what my mother Fabiola Soyinka told me on my eighteenth birthday, the day I asked her certain questions about my powers and my origin. I looked at the short, slender woman who bore me, and hugged her tenderly. My mother was all I had, growing up fatherless in the City of Odeda, where we were social outcasts.

"I'll destroy anything and anyone who gets in my way, mother," I said, and my mother smiled and nodded. I heeded my mother's words, and grew up to be a formidable warrior. Being the son of a monster granted me exceptional powers such as superhuman strength, ultra-sharp senses, and the ability to heal instantly from injuries that would kill ordinary people. A superman, of sorts. I found a band of warriors called the Ipaniyan Ole, and set about conquering Nigeria...

I killed whoever got in my way, men and women alike, and soon gathered quite a following. My Ipaniyan warriors and I marched across Western Africa, conquering city after city. Those who surrendered to us, we took tribute from them in the form of women, jewelry and crops. Those who resisted us, we destroyed their homes and sold them into slavery. I was ruthless, and felt like the world was mine for the taking. And then along came Lord Ogun, the Yoruba God of War.

"Soyinka, fiend that you are, heed these words, the world is not yours for the taking," shouted a booming voice from the heavens. It was nighttime, and my Ipaniyan and I surrounded the island of Lagos, where the few Naija leaders who still resisted me hid. I had already conquered the Igbo kingdom and the Yoruba kingdom. My right-hand-man, a fearsome warrior named Malik was leading an onslaught against the Hausa kingdom. Soon, all of Nigeria would be ours...

"Oh shit," I said to myself as lightning struck, and the earth began to shake. As the horses panicked by the hundreds, throwing off their riders, I watched as an impossible vision materialized before me. Something was coming down from the skies. A man on a chariot pulled by winged, horse-like creatures. For the first time in ages, I felt fear, true fear.

"Soyinka, I am Ogun, God of War, bow before me or be destroyed," shouted the rider, and when I didn't react fast enough, he hurled a lightning bolt at me. Until the day I die, if I ever die, that is, I'll never forget that feeling. Lord Ogun totally owned me that day. I fell to the ground, shocked and awed in every way. The God of War stood over me, grim faced.

"What do you want, my lord?" I asked, coughing blood, and the God of War smiled. This was my first encounter with Ogun, God of War of the Yoruba people of West Africa. This was the being the Yoruba tribesmen prayed to when I invaded their lands. I sacked his temples and sold many of his worshippers into slavery. I mocked Ogun, thinking him a mere myth. So much that Ogun did what no West African deity had done in many centuries. He crossed over to the mortal realm to make an example out of yours truly...

"Soyinka, you thought yourself mightier than others because a monster sired you upon a mortal woman, now you look upon me and see true power, serve me and live, or I can kill you now, your choice," Lord Ogun said to me. I looked at the tall, massively muscular, dark-skinned being that stood before me. The War God's eyes blazed bright yellow, and there was a cruel smile on his face.

"Lord Ogun, I am thy humble servant," I said, bowing my head gently, and the God of War extended his hand, and a tiny bolt shot out of his fingertip. I winced as I felt the bolt strike me, and although it wasn't as painful as the lightning bolt, it still hurt. The God of War marked me with his divine seal, right there on my chest. I didn't know it at the time, but Ogun was essentially binding me to him...

"Rise, Soyinka, henceforth, you shall be my emissary," Lord Ogun said, and that day, my world changed. Ironically, I abandoned the ways of war after meeting the God of War. Lord Ogun changed my world, and my life. He showed me the world, and taught me that I had a place in it. I could become an agent of the Yoruba Gods and a protector of men, by fighting against the forces of evil. Although reluctant at first, I have since embraced my new role...

Which brings me back to my current predicament. Detectives Connors and Lopez grilled me with questions, and I tried my best to answer them. I couldn't tell them the truth, of course. I was on the trail of Eleggua, who was proving particularly difficult to get rid of. Like the Gods whom they serve, the Orishas dwell in another plane of existence. Eleggua had to cross over to the earthly plane as a bodiless yet still powerful entity. The creep can enter human bodies at will. Good luck catching someone like that...

"Perhaps a night in lockup can clear your mind, Professor Soyinka, this isn't Ottawa, us Toronto cops do things differently," Detective Lopez said, and I looked her up and down, and repressed a shudder. Being a student of human nature, I am well aware of the fact that the attractive, ambitious Latin-Canadian policewoman is more than she seems. Indeed, I know a sociopath when I see one. It's all in those cold, emotionless eyes of hers...

"Cool," I replied, even as the detectives summoned a uniform officer, who cuffed me and then proceeded to lead me to the holding cell. I closed my eyes, hard. This was going to be a long night...unless. I demanded a phone call, and instead of calling a lawyer, I called my T.A. Monica Van Bemmel, and in a calm voice, I told her what had happened.

"Patrick Soyinka, what on earth have you gotten yourself into? You're lucky I'm in Scarborough for the weekend, otherwise your cute ass would have had to spend the next couple of days in lockup," Monica said feistily, and I sighed and rolled my eyes. At least she's not too far from downtown Toronto, that's something, right? I thanked my lucky stars that she was willing to come bail me out...

"Monica, be a dear and come help a brother out," I replied, and Monica laughed, and then told me she'd do what she could. A cop walked by, and told me that my time was up. I resisted the urge to give the uniformed bozo the middle finger, and nodded instead. Confident that I would get out of this mess without too much trouble, I tried to relax a bit.

Last night, I tracked Eleggua to the apartment of one Lucinda Turner, a real estate agent working for Coldwell Banker. There had been a string of murders in the GTA which the Toronto Police Service couldn't explain. It started with a lady named Roseanne Whitaker, who killed her husband Parker and their three daughters a month ago. Roseanne apparently had a bloody knife in her hand when the cops came, and she was gunned down by Toronto Police Constable Kendra Jackson.

Fast forward a few weeks, and Constable Kendra Jackson killed her partner Mariam Henderson and their adopted son Elias. The Toronto Police officers responding to that particular 911 call found Kendra but only after she'd apparently killed herself. Dr. Roland Duchene, the medical examiner who performed the autopsy on Kendra Jackson went home and killed his wife Jenny and their two sons.

Guess who's responsible for all those killings? Eleggua. The fiend enters the bodies of men and women in the 'hero' professions, the life savers, such as cops and doctors, and destroys them and their families. Then the monster moves onto the next body, to ritualistically murder the next family. To me, family is sacred. Growing up, my mother and I were all each other had. That's why I want to kill Eleggua. The monster has to pay...

"Always a day late and a dollar short, Demon," Eleggua said to me last night, as I confronted him. Standing in the doorway of his latest host's house, the rogue Orisha smirked at me. I looked at the tall, attractive, blonde-haired and blue-eyed, well-dressed woman who stood before me, and the evil inhabiting her body looked out at me through her eyes. I repressed a shudder...

In the eyes of the world, Lucinda Turner is a champion of noble causes, and a dual American/Canadian citizen. The lady holds an MBA from the University of Washington and works for the Toronto Board of Real Estate. Lucinda Turner is a respected businesswoman who teaches business at the University of Toronto. She has spoken out against the rise of xenophobia in both Trudeau's Canada and Trump's America. Oh, and she donates a lot of money to the ACLU. This made her a prime target for infestation, as far as Eleggua was concerned...

"Eleggua, you don't have to do this, exit this poor woman's body and return home with me," I pleaded, and the monster smiled. Next thing I knew, Eleggua came at me. We fought, and the fight spilled into the driveway. Orishas are several orders of magnitude stronger than demons like myself, so I wasn't exactly winning when the cops came, alerted by the fight between the well-dressed white lady and the burly young black man. I think you can guess their thoughts...

"I am having fun here, why should I end this game? I love it," Eleggua said, smiling wickedly through the human visage it wore. The monster had somehow overpowered me and stood over me. As I watched, bloodied and all but defeated, Eleggua pulled a blade out of a purse, and plunged it into her chest. A few seconds later, the Toronto Police arrived to take yours truly into custody...

"Cat got your tongue, Patrick?" Monica Van Kemmel asked sharply as she sat across from me inside Alabon Libon Caribbean Cuisine Restaurant, a nice Haitian spot located not far from downtown Toronto. I took a bite out of my plate of white rice, brown bean sauce and fried goat meat, and took a good look at my favorite T.A. and frequent verbal sparring partner. There was a storm brewing underneath her outward calm...

"Nah, Monica, I just don't like to speak with a mouth full," I replied, and Monica rolled her green eyes. I smiled, shrugged and continued eating. I'm glad Monica brought me here. Haitian food is simply addictive. I love West African culinary delights, of course. Still, the Haitians have foodstuffs that I simply cannot resist. I think these people come from Naijaland, whether they admit it or not.

"Don't play coy with me, Patrick, you're worried, I can tell," Monica said, snatching me out of my train of thought. The diminutive, red-haired, tattooed gal sitting across from me wore a black leather jacket, red tank top, black leather miniskirt and black cowgirl boots. Monica reminded me of Hollywood actress Lori Petty, in her younger days. The day I became a full professor at Carleton University, I chose her as my T.A. We've butted heads over the years, but she's an awesome lady...

"Alright, Monica, I'm going after a serial killer," I said, and Monica sighed, and took a sip of her lemonade. We've known each other for a while, Monica and I. My penchant for getting into trouble is well-known to her. We've had to deal with some pretty rough characters. No, she doesn't know what I truly am. Still, hearing that I'm on the trail of a serial murderer doesn't seem out of the ordinary to her. Bless her heart...

"Anything I can do to talk you out of it, crazy man?" Monica asked, and I saw sad resignation in her lovely eyes. When I met her three years ago, Monica was a newcomer to Ottawa, Ontario, by way of Eindhoven, Netherlands. The five-foot-seven, cute, feisty and foul-mouthed international student rubbed a lot of people the wrong way at Carleton University but I grew fond of her.

"This one is a real sicko and has done a lot of harm to people I care about," I said, wishing I could tell Monica more, but I didn't want to involve her too much in my mad world. Monica gave me the you-got-to-be-kidding me look, and I smiled briefly and looked away. Of all the mortals I've met since I left West Africa and moved to Canada, Monica Van Kemmel is dearest to me.

"Who are those mystery people?" Monica asked, matter-of-factly, and I sighed, then gently took her hands in mine. I looked at Monica's sleek, pale hands, entwined with mine, and paused. I've lived through a lot of horror, but it never ceases to amaze me, the progress that the world has made when it comes to race and gender issues. Sure, racism is on the rise with a creep like Donald Trump in the White House, but I see lots of men and women of all colors protesting bigotry...

"The killer's name is Eleggua, and he's from Nigeria, and has done a lot of harm there, and now he's in Canada, and I must stop him," I said at last, and Monica looked at me, and, without another word, she did something most unexpected. The feisty Dutchwoman took my hand and gently kissed it, surprising the hell out of me. I smiled nervously, and Monica grinned, eyebrows raised.

"First true thing you've said all afternoon, Patrick, you're a horrible liar," Monica said, laughing, and I smiled, pretending to be offended. Her lovely face drew closer to mine, and then we kissed. It wasn't the kind of kiss you see in the movies or on television nowadays. Monica and I are lovers, but we're not exclusive. I know that she has other guys and even gals on the side. I tell myself that I'm not jealous. Millennials like her are highly experimental, and I've got to get with the program...

"Sweet lips and a sharp tongue, you are something else," I said, when we came up for air, and Monica grinned and shrugged. I like that Devil-may-care grin of hers. Of course, I've met some actual Devils while working as an emissary for Ogun, the West African God of War. They rarely wear horns or carry pitchforks, let me tell you. None of them are as lovely as Monica, though, I must admit...

"Cause I know you like it like that," Monica replied haughtily, and she reached under the table and laid her hand on my crotch. I almost spilled my drink and looked at her. Monica winked at me, and then she got up and walked up to the restaurant counter. I watched as she spoke to the lady who owned the place, inquiring about the washrooms. They were at the back. Monica paused in front of the ladies room, then turned around and smiled at me.