The Immortal African

Do you have any idea what it's like to genuinely feel afraid of death after existing for thousands of years as a nigh-invincible Immortal? Welcome to my life. My name is Makeda, although I go back by Mark Cedars these days. Even after walking the earth for many centuries, I am still in awe of what modern man can come up with. That's why I'm studying civil engineering at Carleton University in the City of Ottawa, Ontario. I like to know how things work.

Anyone looking at me would see a six-foot-one, lean and athletic young man with medium brown skin and curly black hair, whose features are a blend of African and Arabian. I often get mistaken for Ethiopian or Somali these days, but I'm actually much older than these fascinating Northeast African nations.

Indeed, truth be told I'm old enough to remember when the motherland of Africa was home to many great nations. I journeyed the Earth at a time when European and Asian powers were small in number, considerably less advanced than they are now, and warred among themselves constantly. In other words, I'm ancient, I simply don't look like it, thank you very much.

I was born in the City of Kerma, Kingdom of Kush, in 920 B.C. During the reign of the great King Aserkamani the Magnificent, last of the Cushitic Kings of Kerma. The realm I once called home encompasses much of today's Sudan, and parts of Egypt. Indeed, my father Khratan was a Cushite and my mother Tanithia came from Phoenicia, a mighty empire encompassing much of Lebanon, Palestine, Israel and Syria. Hailing from such unique descent, I will forever be the son of two worlds.

"Mark, snap out of it, my dude, class is over," the voice snatching me out of my reveries belongs to Justin Keogh, a young Irishman I met during Orientation Day at Carleton, two years ago. I look at the short, plump, ginger-headed youth and resist the temptation to smack him upside his head. Justin is a friend, and one of a few mortals to know my secret.

"Cool your jets, ginger, I heard you the first time," I reply, and I nonchalantly brush his hand from my shoulder. Our class is emptying faster than dot-com stock, and I can see a look of disappointment on the face of Professor James Etienne, a stocky, fortysomething Haitian guy in a tacky dark gray suit. Dude is probably the only black faculty member in the school's engineering programmes. I flash him an apologetic smile, and Professor Etienne rolls his eyes.

"Mr. Cedars, if learning about Thermodynamics and Heating Transfers bores you, may I suggest you take something easier, like Engineering 101," Professor Etienne says in a sharp tone, and I bristle slightly, taking umbrage more with his tone than his words. It's not easy being an old man in a young man's body. I often struggle to get the respect that I deserve. Not that I suffer fools, mind you. It's just that when people assume you're a young pup, they don't always take you seriously. Or they patronize you, which sucks.

"Sounds good, see you next week, sir," I reply flippantly and Justin shakes his head. We exit the Minto Building together, and I walk toward the University Center building. It houses the school's largest cafeteria, and I for one am famished. Justin follows me, and I can sense the disapproval rolling off of him in waves. I ignore it, but my buddy can't take the hint.

"Mac, I realize you are probably old enough to remember when engineering was invented, but there's no need to antagonize Professor Etienne like that," Justin says, and I nod and smile, hoping he'll shut up. It's one thirty in the afternoon, and I want to eat some Shawarma. Hopefully the lineup in the cafeteria isn't too long. I've got a thing for Lebanese beef sandwiches, and when I get a craving for them, I've got no choice but to satisfy it.

"Justin, relax, come get a tasty Shawarma sandwich, on me," I say as I clap Justin on the shoulder, and he sighs and relents at last. I walk through the throngs of students making their way to and from the U.C. building. Justin wants to take the elevators to the cafeteria on the second floor but I grab him and force him to take the stairs. It's for his own good. My little buddy is brilliant and probably going to invent some revolutionary engine or something someday, but if he keeps avoiding basic exercise, he might not live long enough.

"Oh fuck, Mac, it's her," Justin says, and I follow his gaze and find myself looking at a tall, gorgeous young Asian woman with short, spiky dark hair with blue highlights. Clad in a red tank top, black leather pants and high-heeled shoes, the gal looks beautiful and provocative. I smile at Justin and gently shove him in her direction, which, with my superhuman strength, is enough to propel him half a dozen feet.

"Um, watch it," the young woman replies, looking at Justin with the hauteur of a person finding a cockroach hopping on their boot. Justin flashes Miss Asian Beauty an apologetic smile, then starts mumbling. I feel bad for the guy, and then go rescue him because, well, that's what friends do.

"Sorry about that, ma'am, it was an accident," I say, looking directly into the lady's eyes, and she looks me up and down, and relents, somewhat. Nodding, she walks away and goes to the poutine stand, where a stocky black dude with a mustache is handling a rather massive lineup of hungry students. Justin shoots me an angry look and brushes my ( sympathetic? ) hand from his shoulder. I feel bad. Seriously, I didn't mean to be such a dick.

"My bad, dude, your sandwich is on me," I say hopefully, and Justin says nothing. My turn comes, and I tell the short, friendly guy behind the Shawarma counter that I want a combo. Shawarma beef sandwich with potatoes and hummus, plus a Pepsi, all for ten bucks. I finish my order, and wait for Justin, then turn around and realize that he's walked away. Bummer.

I pay for my sandwich, and exchange pleasantries with a middle-aged French lady who's been working at the school cafeteria for ages. I insist on getting a receipt, which surprises her. I've had some bad experiences, alright? I head back to the cafeteria and look for Justin, but can't find my favorite ginger. I scan the vast room, and my ultra-sharp sense of smell cannot detect his familiar scent. Dude is gone. Fuck. I hate eating alone.

Loneliness is a constant thing, when you're Immortal. I sit at a window, alone. The room is full of young men and women of all hues, and it's a wonderful thing. Carleton University is one of the most diverse schools I've ever seen, and believe me, I've attended my fair share. Africans, Arabs, Caribbean people, Latinos, Eastern Europeans, I've seen them all around here. It's a beautiful thing. Of course, alone is still alone, no matter how awesome your surroundings might be.

I take a bite out of my sandwich, and for the thousandth time, I try not to think about a most harrowing situation I've encountered recently. You see, when you've lived for as long as I have, you're bound to make enemies. I'm not the only one of my kind out there, though sometimes it can certainly feel like it. Plenty of us Immortals roaming the globe, and we don't particularly care for one another. Last night, I ran into an old enemy.

"Makeda, is it really you?" I was standing at the OC Transpo bus stop on the Mackenzie King bridge, a heartbeat from the Rideau Shopping Center in downtown Ottawa, and the voice which uttered these seemingly innocuous words chilled me to my very bones. I turned around, and found myself looking into a face I hadn't seen in a thousand years.

"Lamia," I replied, and gasped as the tall, statuesque, bronze-skinned and raven-haired beauty stepped forward. Lamia, the Queen of the Vampires. A woman I once loved, and was forced to betray in order to save the world from her. I took a deep breath, and forced myself to be calm as she stepped forward, clad in a bright green summer dress and looking very much the Mediterranean beauty. For the first time in my 2936 years upon this earth, I felt genuine fear...