Drake fandom in Canada is a religion. Blessed are those who run through the 6ix with their woes, for theirs is the OVO-brand clothing and accessories at the pop-up. I've always loved Drake, but I live in the mid-western province of Saskatchewan—over 2,500 km from the epicentre of culture, Toronto. To the rest of Canada, Toronto's greatness is unstoppable and fragrant, much like a out-of-control septic truck. Drake is the driver.

Some took this as a joke, but it was clear this was a direct calling to take my investigation to the next level. In order to be a faithful follower, I decided to make the pilgrimage to the Village of Drake and learn more about the birthplace of my idol. What I would uncover there was a sight to behold, filled with colourful people, Drakolytes, and some old ladies playing dominoes. In the end, however, I would discover the true meaning of life. More Life.

I wish I could abandon everything that makes me happy and live in Toronto just to be closer, but rent costs approximately your bones. I'm holding out for when the city inevitably claims my home province as a suburb. But then I discovered something incredible: While checking out Toronto neighbour division lines, I found out Drake has already conquered Saskatchewan. It seems he settled a small village in the land of wheat and tedium. Turns out there is a village called Drake, in Saskatchewan. At first I was skeptical, but then the clues became obvious. Behold this video of Drake talking about actually being from Saskatchewan:

Being inside Drake is fascinating. Driving up to the village of less than 250 people, I saw his name on the welcome sign in an elegant font. It was very If You're Reading This It's Too Late cover-inspired. I tried to imagine how Aubrey Graham could have possibly written his name in metal letters, or at least how his ghost writer did. The streets of Drake are virtually empty, but no matter, I was finally home. The village consists of five residential blocks and a main street. There is a sports complex, a school and sausage manufacturer—all of which can be seen over the course of a two-minute drive. Out there on the Canadian plains, Drake seems even smaller, like a frail boy engulfed in a man's turtleneck sweater. On this tiny outback I'd meet the mayor of Drake, Peter. Just Peter.

I walked up the drive toward a modest home. The place was easy to find, with a sign near the front door reading "The Nicholson's." A truck out front and tools strewn about underneath a detached garage awning spoke to the industrious nature of the Drake people. After a brief moment of waiting I was finally greeted by Peter, still just Peter. I'd, perhaps rudely, assumed everyone in Drake would be named Drake or Champagne Papi or some variant on a Drake-related theme. Something felt off, but Mayor Peter put me at ease with a firm handshake. He told me to meet him at the village office at the end of the block.

Me: Tell me about Drake.

Peter Nicholson, Drake Mayor: Drake is a good community. It was started back in 1907 or 1905 or some time around then. It was a stopping off point for Mennonites, so there's a fairly large population of Mennonites in the area. Not to be confused with Hutterites or Amish. It was a railroad town. At one time, there was probably 300 to 400 people in town with groceries stores and hardware stores and all the rest of it. Now we're down to 197 people. Just got notification the gas station at the end of the street is closing.

Really? Wow.

We've got Drake Meats Processors—they employ about 70 people—and the Credit Union would be probably the only two businesses in town.

And so … Drake doesn't have anything to do with the artist known as Drake?

No. Absolutely nothing. Nope.

Not even a little bit?

Not even a little bit. We haven't crossed paths. We haven't invited him, and he hasn't contacted us.

This was a disaster. Something was very wrong. Surely this was a misunderstanding, and the mayor of a Drake-themed village knew what he was about. I pressed on. I showed him several photos of Drake, asked him if "Passionfruit" was eligible to be a national anthem of the area, all to no avail. Nicholson reacted to Drake's various styles through the years by saying, "Sure," "He's alright," and "Looks like he's enjoying himself." He then clarified the village was apparently named after a British explorer named Sir Francis Drake. I asked Nicholson to clarify: The rapper Drake is also a knighted British explorer? "No," Nicholson responded. Out of options, there was only one thing left to do: I put on "Hotline Bling." This would be it, no man nor woman or ugly baby could deny this. I danced around the mayor's office and asked him to reevaluate the sonic aphrodisiac that is Drake's timbre. As I thrusted I looked into his eyes, searching for any light, understanding of what was happening here.

"He's good. I've heard his stuff before. I don't know anything about it. Probably wouldn't buy anything by him. If it was on the radio, I probably wouldn't quickly shut it off." I had failed.