The Muslim Vampire Saga

In mortal life, I was a pious Muslim, praying to Allah five times a day, and read the noble Koran. Now that I'm no longer alive, I see no reason to stop. For if He who is the one True God worshipped by Jew, Christian and Muslim did indeed make all things then am I not one of His creations? I choose to believe that it's my actions that define who I am, and nothing else. If one lives a righteous existence in the eyes of the Most High, that's all that matters. Only God can judge me. My name is Ali Cisman and I'm a vampire living in the City of Mogadishu, Somalia.

I first saw the light of day in the summer of 1278 A.D. I was born to Mohammed Cisman, a Somali prince who ruled what would one day be called Puntland, and his wife Samira Hassan, a Yemeni noblewoman. At the age of eighteen I was sent by my father to study at the prestigious Sal Al Din University in the City of Marrakesh, Morocco. I wouldn't return home for another six years. While in Marrakesh I met a beautiful woman named Yasmina, the daughter of a powerful Moroccan preacher named Sheikh Abdullah.

From the moment I first laid eyes on her, I was mesmerized by the lovely Yasmina. Unfortunately for me, the lady was taken. Now, Yasmina and I were fond of one another and refused to let circumstances get in our way. We began meeting secretly at the villa I resided in, near the University. Every moment that we spent together was magical, for we were in love. Not being able to meet in public like young lovers bothered us, but we refused to let it get to us.

In her husband Sheikh Abdullah's eyes, Yasmina was but his third wife and no great beauty. He constantly criticized her for being tall, curvy, wide-hipped and big-bottomed. For Yasmina had Berber, Turkish and Moroccan ancestry and her exotic looks reflected it and her husband Sheikh Abdullah preferred the slender, pale beauties of the Moroccan countryside. His bronze-skinned, raven-haired, green-eyed and stunningly voluptuous wife looks didn't appeal to him. Something about her great height and curves turned him off. What a fool! I wonder why such a man would take a woman like Yasmina as wife if her looks displeased him.

When I asked her about it, Yasmina shrugged and told me that men like Sheikh Abdullah collected women the way some men collect toys, or rare jewels. That's all she would ever be to him. A vessel through which he would bring his future sons and daughters into this world. In Somalia, we respect women and protect them. A Somali woman has freedom and power, for even though we are Muslim, our society is matriarchal due to fathers and sons constantly dying before their time thanks to internecine wars in our homeland.

Even now, centuries after it's all over and done with, I remember the feel of Yasmina's supple body against mine as we made love. I remember her warm breath against my cheek as we lay in each other's arms after a night of passionate lovemaking. Her husband Sheikh Abdullah had gone to perform the sacred Hajj in distant Makkah and taken much of his household with him. He would be gone for several months, and thus I had Yasmina to myself. I'm afraid that Yasmina and I grew carefree in Sheikh Abdullah's absence.

One night, as we met at my villa for tea, Yasmina revealed to me news which gladdened my heart and doomed me at the same time. My beloved's eyes were filled with tears of joy and pain as she told me that she was pregnant. When those words left her lips, I sighed deeply and embraced her passionately. For the rest of the night we lay together, alternately crying and laughing. Before dawn, Yasmina pleaded with me to take her with me. Let us live together in Somalia, she said, her lime-green eyes boring into mine.

Over the next few days, I resolved to return to Somalia with Yasmina Hassan, the wife of a Moroccan preacher and nobleman who considered me a friend. If anyone found out we were involved, we would surely be arrested and put to death. On matters of adultery the Laws of Allah are rigid and crystal clear. I've seen men and women found guilty of adultery by the Islamic Courts put to death via beheading on the village squares of the Somali Empire. Doubtless the Moroccan people have a similar tradition.

What a dilemma we faced! I thought long and hard about what to do. My father Prince Mohammed Cisman sent me to study at Sal Al Din University in the City of Marrakesh to learn about statecraft and become a worthy ruler for our part of Imperial Somalia. The only place with better schools in the Islamic world would be Makkah in the heart of Arabia or perhaps the City of Istanbul in Turkey. My father felt that the Arabs and the Turks were too crazy so he sent me to study in the Kingdom of Morocco. Yeah, we had it all planned out. I would study and return home ready to rule. I just had to go fall in love with the wife of a powerful Moroccan nobleman. Man, when it rains it frigging pours, eh?

Thus, I resolved to return to Imperial Somalia with my beloved Yasmina. I couldn't leave her behind, for I knew Sheikh Abdullah wouldn't be fooled and would surely put her to death. Besides, I knew that at least one of the servants in the Sheikh's household had seen us together. They'd be the worst servants in the world if they didn't return our every action to their Master when he came back from the sacred Hajj. I knew that there would be hell to pay. I had to do with, whatever pain may come, and whatever harm might befall me. A man who loves behind the woman he loves and leaves her to face certain doom is no man at all.

Thus, with two horses and a camel, I set across the North African desert to journey from Morocco to Somalia. A distance of six thousand two hundred and seventy nine kilometers separate the two nations. Yasmina and I couldn't take a boat to Somalia because the ports of Marrakesh were controlled by friends of Sheikh Abdullah and there was no way they would let me leave with his darling wife. No, we left for the desert under cover of darkness. I didn't know it at the time but this journey would end in tragedy. Alone in the desert with limited funds and supplies, Yasmina and I were doomed from the start.

One night, as we lay together in a cave, Yasmina and I were attacked. Set upon by a feral beast the likes of which I had never seen. It looked like a man, except it was thin almost to the point of being skeletal, and had glowing red eyes and a mouth full of curving fangs. I fought fiercely, and cut off the beast's right hand with my sword. Howling in pain it seized me with its other hand and hurled me into the air. I crashed onto the sand, twenty feet away, the wind knocked from me. Helplessly I watched as it caught Yasmina in its powerful grip, and buried its fangs in her neck. I watched it drink her blood, then it came for me. I felt its fangs at my throat, then I knew no more.

When I came to, several days later, I found myself...changed. As for my beloved Yasmina, she was nowhere to be found. What became of her and our unborn son or daughter, I never found out. The beast's bite changed me, and I discovered some very frightening things when I woke up. The light of the sun pained me, and I felt this raging hunger. I hid inside the cave, and when the sun went down, I emerged from the darkness. That night, while wandering across the dunes, I came across a desert gazelle. Amazingly, I caught it after a long chase and fed upon it. Sinking my fangs into its throat, I fed on its hot, precious blood.

Only after my first feeding did I truly realize what I had become. A thing that hides during the day and comes out at night to drink the blood of living creatures. What people around the world call a vampire. For ages I wandered across the desert, looking for Yasmina. I never found her. In many ways, I've been looking for her since mid-summer 1304 A.D. Once I adapted to the changes in me, I discovered something wonderful. Living as a vampire, well, it's different but it's what I am, not who I am. I am still Ali Cisman of Puntland, Somalia.

For centuries I wandered the world, ranging from North African nations like Morocco and Algeria to Sudan, Ethiopia, Nigeria, and of course, my beloved Somalia. When the Italians and the French came to the Horn of Africa, I fought against them, albeit in my own limited but astonishingly brutal way. When unlucky Frenchmen let their guards down in the desert at night, they fell prey not to bandits or wild beasts but to me. Their death come walking. In time I became a local legend, the Blood Drinker. I did the same thing to American soldiers when they came to Somalia in the 1990s. I'm part of the reason they haven't returned. Unlike the foul beast that made me what I am centuries ago, I never willingly passed the curse onto another.

The way I see it, this existence of mine is a curse. One I wouldn't wish unto my worst enemy. Most of the time, I drink the blood of animals. For I know that even the most wicked man on the planet is still one of Allah's creations and his fate is up to the Most High and not one such as I. I only kill men when they leave me absolutely no choice. I prefer to avoid conflict. Except when the Somali community or my fellow Muslims are endangered by outside forces.

Yes, I still consider myself a devout Muslim even though I am no longer human. Allah made all things, did He not? Thus it must be His will that I am undead. Stronger than ten able-bodied men, able to walk close to a hundred kilometers in one night without feeling tired, or run faster than a gazelle for short bursts, I know that I am not invincible. Someday, not soon but someday, I will meet my maker. Sometimes I wonder what became of Yasmina and our unborn son or daughter. Did the foul beast slay her? Or does she walk the earth, a creature like me? I don't know. Perhaps I'll never know. I choose to believe that she is in Jannah right now, in Allah's embrace. One day I shall join her. When at last I see the sunrise again, or when someone comes along who is strong enough to put me out of my misery.