“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.

“Dammit, woman,” I said softly, and I counted to ten, then headed to the washroom as well. Monica grabbed me as soon as I got in, and kissed me passionately. Just like that, we began making love. There’s something awesome and adventurous about a quickie, especially in a place like a restaurant washroom where you’re quite likely to get caught. Monica and I simply did not care…

“I want you now, Patrick,” Monica whispered hotly as I pressed her against the wall, and caressed her small, perky breasts through her tank top. Monica’s hands fondled my crotch, and she unzipped my pants. Out came my dick, which is long, thick, dark and uncircumcised. Monica stroked it, a dreamy look upon her lovely face. I slid my hand into her skirt, and smiled as I realized she wasn’t wearing any panties.

“I can tell,” I replied, kissing Monica as I began fingering her already wet pussy. Monica does not shave down below and I like that in a woman. As I fingered and prodded her gently, Monica moaned deeply and continued pumping her small hand up and down my dick. Soon I was hard as a rock, and Monica could definitely tell. Locking eyes me, Monica nodded and licked her lips.

“Take me,” Monica hissed, and I leaned into her, and she wrapped her arms around me, holding me tight as I began my approach into her. With a swift thrust I entered her. Monica exhaled sharply, and I held her hips as I began fucking her. The washroom was small and uncomfortable, but we didn’t give a damn. I pumped my dick into Monica, and she squealed in delight as I fucked her.

“What are you doing in there?” came a French-accented mature feminine voice, and Monica and I stared at each other, and smiled. Busted. We continued fucking, and the knocks continued on the door, and we ignored them. Monica’s fingernails dug into the flesh of my arms and shoulders, and her pussy squeezed me tightly. I couldn’t take it anymore and came, violently…

“Nature called, madame,” Monica said, blank-faced, to the restaurant owner, and the older Haitian lady gasped. Pretty much everyone on the premises stared at us, giggling as we exited together. Outside, it was raining, and we got into a cab and went to Monica’s spot, where we continued what we’d started in Alabon Libon Caribbean Cuisine restaurant. It was absolutely fantastic. Afterwards, Monica and I lay in bed, happy as can be…

“To many more days like this one,” I said to Monica as I held her in my arms, and my favorite Dutchwoman grinned and playfully tugged on my chest hairs, causing me to wince a bit. I caressed Monica’s thick derriere, causing her to purr like a kitten. Lying in bed with Monica, I swear, I felt all my problems melt away. Sure, the Toronto police are after me and there’s a supernatural serial killer out there, but in that moment, I felt at peace.

“Amen to that, Patrick,” Monica said, then she kissed me on the lips and fell asleep. Monica’s got a habit of hogging the covers, and bed space, and sometimes, she talks in her sleep. Other times, she farts. Oh yeah, my diminutive Dutch cutie with the big booty likes to let them rip in her sleep. Doesn’t bother me none. I grew up in Nigeria, where the human body and its flaws are a beautiful thing. Only westerners like to pretend they’re made of steel…When I woke up, my world ended.

“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” came a familiar feminine voice, and I woke up to see Monica Van Kemmel standing before me, fully dressed. In her hand she held a butcher’s knife. I shrank back from her instinctively, and she smiled. I looked into Monica’s eyes and my inner Demon told me that this wasn’t Monica, at least not the one I knew.

“Eleggua, you’re possessing her,” I whispered, gasping in shock, and the renegade Orisha smiled wickedly. I stood up, and faced my foe, beyond disturbed that my enemy now wore the face of the woman I loved. The Orisha/Monica came closer, and slashed at me with the knife. With my superhuman reflexes I easily dodged it, but I couldn’t keep this up forever.

“The Yoruba Gods must be pretty desperate to send someone like you against me,” Eleggua/Monica said, laughing. I stared her down. Everything in me wanted to rush my enemy and take her down, but I knew that I would only be harming Monica Van Kemmel in the process. The rogue Orisha known as Eleggua is a bodiless entity. If I were to kill its current host, it would soon move to another, unless…

“I am Soyinka the Hunter, Servant and Emissary of Ogun, God of War of the Yoruba people, I do not age nor do I fall prey to disease or injury, I am a half-breed, and I have a proposition for you,” I said, and a flicker of interest appeared in Eleggua/Monica’s eyes. The rogue Orisha stopped, and licked her lips. I could tell that I had its attention, and now, to reel it in…

“What can you offer me?” Eleggua/Monica said, her beautiful face a mask of disdain. The Orishas have always been beings of great power. In West Africa, since ancient times, they were intermediaries between the World of Man and the Abode of the Gods. Immortal, wise, cunning, and quite powerful. Even if I were a full-fledged Demon, I would not be a match for Eleggua at full power. The diminished immortal before me had a fatal weakness, one I intended to exploit…

“Eleggua, you must tire of these human host bodies, they age, they die, they get injured so easily, I am not like them, I am part demon, and as such I do not age and you yourself know I am strong, why not take over me and leave this mortal shell?” I asked, arms wide open. Eleggua/Monica smiled, and I saw genuine surprise on her beautiful face. The rogue Orisha licked her lips, and chuckled softly.

“Soyinka, you’re willing to give up your life and your freedom for this mortal woman? You are a fool, but, so be it,” Eleggua said, and a moment later, Monica collapsed. Even as I rushed to her aid, I felt something strong and invisible envelop me. I struggled against it but it was like fighting against an ocean which you could not see. Try as I might, I could not resist…

“Patrick, no!” Monica shouted, and she rushed to me, even as the rogue Orisha forced me on my knees. I felt its presence as it entered my mind, and began asserting control over my body. Monica tenderly embraced me, and I heard Eleggua laugh, somewhere inside the deepest recesses of my mind. The monster had been out of sorts since it had to ditch its immortal body in order to enter the mortal realm without the Yoruba Gods permission. Now, at last, it had an earthbound immortal body to possess…

“Run, sweetie,” I whispered, even as I steeled myself for what I knew had to be done. I took a look at Monica, whose eyes were filled with tears, and then, with every ounce of strength I had left, I threw myself out the window. Monica’s Toronto flat is an eleventh-floor apartment inside a condo owned by a wealthy relative of hers. As I slammed through the window and began to dive-bomb toward the ground, I said a silent prayer to Ogun for deliverance…

“Patrick, nooooooooooooooo!” Monica screamed, and I caught a last glimpse of her lovely face, filled with horror, even as I fell through the window. I landed on the ground, eleven floors below. I’ve been alive since 1377 A.D. and stopped aging on my thirty second birthday, in 1399. Over the course of the centuries, I’ve been shot, stabbed, burned, and even hung. I’ve never thrown myself out of an eleven-floor window, though.

“Fool, I will escape your body and go after your beloved Monica,” Eleggua whispered in my mind, and I fought, not to break free of the rogue Orisha’s iron will but to grab hold of it mentally. The monster would not escape this time. If this is to be my death, I have made my peace with that. All that matters is that I rid the world of ultimate evil with my passing…

“We’re going to hell together,” I said to Eleggua, and we screamed in unison as we crashed on the ground. An eleven-story fall can do terrible things to a human body. When you fall from certain heights, it’s like your body becomes an egg and it hits the payment, cracking and splashing bits and pieces of you everywhere. Yup, that’s what happens to a human body when it falls from such a lofty height. Good thing I don’t have a human body…

A few days later, I rose out of my grave, deep inside the Mount Hope Cemetery. As I breathed the cold air, I smiled. I felt like a new man. Patrick Soyinka is officially dead. As is Eleggua the rogue Orisha, according to Lord Ogun. I will miss being Patrick Soyinka, for many reasons.

Oh, well. Nothing lasts forever, right? Patrick Soyinka of Nigeria is dead. The Carleton University academic community mourned the loss of one of its best and brightest. The Black community of Canada lost a great author and humanitarian. As for the murder spree that gripped Toronto these past few months, it has ceased. Canada’s largest city can now breathe easier, I guess…

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m Matthew Soyinka, Patrick’s twin brother,” I said to Monica Van Kemmel, affecting a deep Nigerian accent so unlike the smooth Canadian one I possessed as Patrick Soyinka. This I did while accosting her. It was a few days after the funeral, and Monica was still grieving. I tracked her down to her favorite spot in Ottawa, the East Side Mario’s restaurant inside the Saint Laurent Mall. You should have seen the look on her pretty face…

“Oh my gosh, you look just like him,” Monica gasped, and I nodded somberly. Monica stared at me silently, and I sighed, then told her my well-rehearsed lines. I even had some paperwork to prove my claim. I know some crafty Nigerian guys back in the motherland who owed me a favor. It was all too easy. Patrick Soyinka is dead, long live his twin brother ( and inheritor ) Matthew Soyinka, newcomer to Canada.

“My brother often spoke of you, Miss Van Kemmel, rather fondly, I might add,” I said in a shy, soft tone, so unlike the brusque confidence I displayed as my former self. Monica looked at me like she’d seen a ghost, and then, impulsively, she hugged me. Gently, I hugged her back. I totally wanted to tell Monica the truth in that moment, but for her own good, I held my tongue.

Monica and I sat down inside the restaurant, and talked about Patrick Soyinka, the late, great and mysterious Nigerian-Canadian scholar and gentleman whom we both loved so dearly. Keeping up this charade is not going to be easy. Monica is one smart woman, she’s not going to be easy to fool. If I slip up, she’ll discover the truth. Still, it’s worth the risk. What can I say? It’s good to be back!

THE END