Name: Rob Johnson Being: God Previous Names and Epithets: Elegua, Papa Legba, The Devil at the Crossroads Gender/Sexuality: Ace Man Origin: Benin How Long in Gooduck?: 1940s Occupation: Mayor of Goodluck Traits: Well-spoken, Level-headed, Innovative
Bio:
When you've got a way with words like Rob does, people just can't stop calling out to you. Once upon a time, there wasn't a soul on the west coast of Africa that didn't invoke Elegua before starting a negotiation or setting out on a journey.
But as history goes, journeys from the West Africa became, far and away, the worst kind of nightmare. He was brought to the islands, first. Haiti and Hispaniola and all the foreign lands his worshippers were sent to against their will. He was proud to travel with them--the least a god could do for his people. And he blessed the roads they wandered as best he could, game stacked against them as it was. Gave them what eloquence he had left.
He ended up in Louisiana in the 1890s when a particularly faithful oungan settled in New Orleans. It wasn't home exactly, but it was as near to one as he'd felt in centuries. Incredible music, outstanding food, and an abundance of faith. And America as a whole, for all its faults, had a lot more roads to travel.
He'd always had a soft spot for crossroads. Call him a romantic--the symbolism was just too delicious. He met and blessed all sorts of wanderers, but among them, his favorite was a musician. An old soul if there ever was one. They became good friends and he even inspired a song or two. It felt only fitting, after the icon passed, that his name live on.
So in the early 1940s, Papa Legba, formerly Elegua, now Rob Johnson meandered into backwoods Kentucky. Dangerous territory for a black man traveling alone, but his words had never failed him. It took him all of six months to be elected mayor.
It's a small town. Never seems to make the news. Is absolutely chocked full of inexplicable bullshit, but Rob's the right man to keep a lid on it. Always has a neat and tidy explanation. And if any high-and-mighty sort is looking to come in and cause trouble, they gotta get past him first.
Headcanons:
His house is full of outdated modes of communication. Rotary phones and telegrams--he even has an old phone company switchboard as a decorative piece.
There's another version of him roaming around with a much more sinister reputation. A young trickster kinda guy. (This happens often with gods of diasporas.) And for the last time, Baron Samedi is a whole other guy.
Misses year-round warm weather.














