"Ammanuel, wake the hell up, the rest of us are going hunting, you've slept in long enough, you lazy cur!" The grating voice uttering these words belongs to my father Adam Tilahun, leader of our clan. In the basement of our Mississauga townhouse, I barely felt the sun going down, even though, as a vampire, I am by nature quite attuned to such things. During the wintertime in Ontario, it tends to get dark way quicker than anywhere else. Just my luck.
"Um, I think I'll pass, Papa," I replied, and I stirred on my bed, trying not to think about last night. It's a night I barely survived, and would rather forget. Anyhow, before we go any further, here's some logistics. I, Ammanuel Tilahun, am a young brother living in the Greater Toronto Area. If you were to look at me, you'd see a six-foot-one, lean and athletic young African man with medium brown skin, long black hair and almond-shaped golden brown eyes. Just another young dude strolling down the street. And this is where you'd definitely be wrong.
I was born in the City of Gondar, Ethiopia, in 1298 A.D. On the first day of the new year, according to the Amharic calendar, of course. My father Adam Tilahun was a leader of our clan and a Knight of the Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church. My mother's name was Bethlehem and she died giving birth to me. My father and I were nomads, moving from place to place with our clan across the vastness of East Africa. This was the good old days, When I was nineteen years old, monsters came to our land.
No, I am not talking about the horrors of European colonialism and their invasion and subsequent semi-enslavement of many indigenous peoples across the motherland of Africa. I am talking about actual monsters. Those monsters were the cursed drinkers of blood, the seed of Satan, doomed to walk the earth for all eternity, hiding from the light of day and drinking the blood of the living to survive. In the summer of 1319 A.D. the vampires came to East Africa, and ravaged it.
They came to Ethiopia, killing many of us and turning quite a few of our people into their own kind. My father gathered an army of men to fight the undead menace, and went after them. This ill-fated expedition spelled doom for our clan, and our entire family. Fighting vampires is usually a losing proposition for mortal men, this much is true. When Papa came back to us, a few nights later...he was forever changed.
"Papa, what happened? Where are the others?" I asked my father as he all but materialized in front of our family tent, a haggard look on his dark, handsome face. Father has always been a tall, strongly built man, easily over six feet, very dark of skin, with thick curly black hair and stern features. As I looked into my father's eyes, I realized there was something strange in them. An unearthly glow. My father's eyes were less human than a lion's, and when he smiled, his teeth elongated and sharpened into wicked fangs.
"A most wonderful thing, my son, soon you will understand," Father said, and then he grabbed me and sank his fangs into my neck. That night, I died. Three nights later, I arose from the dead, confused, and hungry for blood. In this world, a lot of us blame our parents for what we become. Me? I think I'm quite justified in my grievances. Father plucked me from my mortal existence, and cursed me with immortality and everlasting blood thirst. To say that I hate his guts for this would be an understatement. Sadly, he's the only father I've got.
"Suit yourself, lazy bozo," Papa said cheerfully as he exited the townhouse, and joined his buddies in his Lexus. Old vampires are creatures of habit, and tend to stick to a routine. Tonight, they'll scour the Greater Toronto Area, and sample the night's pleasures. A bar to start, and then a leisurely stroll in the college district, and then they'll find someone, usually a homeless guy, a back alley hooker or some street punk, to feed on. The type of person the world doesn't miss.
Now, you might wonder what a guy who's 723 years old doing in his father's basement. I have a good reason to stay at my father's house, folks. In the Toronto-area vampire community, the Tilahun family name commands respect, largely due to my father's influence and dealings. I spent many years drifting all over the place, from America to Canada, from England to West Africa, from Southern Asia to Australia, and I've had quite a few adventures. You don't live as long as I have without making a few enemies.
One of those enemies is Esther Polydor. You know that chick who, when you first meet her, she seems hot and interesting but your gut instinct tells you to stay away? That's Esther for you. I first met the tall, slender and yet deliciously big-bottomed Afro-Caribbean beauty while visiting a Haitian church in the City of Montreal, Quebec, during the early 1980s. Folks, contrarily to what you might think, vampires do not fear crucifixes, or symbols of Christianity, or any other religion. That's just silly superstition and nothing more.
"Bonjour, are you new to this church?" Those were Esther's first words to me as I walked into the Haitian Adventist Church located in the north side of Montreal. I felt drawn to the place, having come to Montreal after many years in the City of London, England. Like all of my kind, I have a talent for speaking various languages. You see, when a vampire drinks a person's blood, we absorb all of their strength and knowledge. If a vampire wants to learn engineering, or carpentry, or speak Arabic, all he or she has to do is drink the blood of an engineer from the Arab world...
"Salut, mademoiselle, I am Ammanuel of Ethiopia, just visiting," I said, smiling as I looked the stunning Haitian beauty up and down. Esther flashed me that fearless smile of hers, and from that moment on, I was hooked. I've always had a thing for tall, lovely ladies with dark skin and big butts. It's the African in me, I suppose, and becoming a vampire hasn't changed that. I am who I always was, pure and simple.
"Welcome, brother, let me show you around," Esther said, and then she linked her arm with mine, and led me deeper into the church. That day, I was introduced to the Haitian people, and their belief system. When I was a mortal, I followed the Ethiopian Orthodox faith. After becoming a vampire, I didn't have much use for religion. Most faiths promise people happiness in the afterlife in exchange for toeing the line while on earth. As a vampire, I have the potential to live forever. What use does someone like me have for religion?
Nevertheless, Esther and her people fascinated me, and I became a regular attendant of evening service at the local Haitian Adventist church. Over the next few months, I got to know, and eventually seduced the lovely Esther. The lady had much going on for her. Student in the Nursing programme at the University of Montreal, devoted leader of the women's choir at her church, active in the Haitian community of northern Montreal, Esther was everywhere. A woman of such grace, intelligence and beauty. A queen in her own right. I wanted to make her mine.
"Father, I've fallen for Esther and I want to be with her always," I said to Papa as we sat down in a Caribbean restaurant in Montreal-Nord, sampling South African wines and watching Night Court on TV. The year was 1985 and Papa and I had just rekindled our centuries-old, oftentimes tumultuous relationship. Naturally, Papa was aware of my dalliance with Esther, and had choice words for me on the matter.
"Ammanuel, my son, do yourself a favor, whatever you feel for this young woman, it will fade in time, leave her be and let her live her life," Papa said, and he smiled that infuriating smile of his as he sipped on a bottle of KWV Roodeberg, 1985 vintage, brewed in the western cape region of South Africa. I looked at him, clad in a dark blue suit, white silk shirt and tie, looking very much like the dapper, middle-aged African businessman he so often pretended to be.
"After all this time, Papa, you still don't know what love is," I said, shaking my head while my father looked at me, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. I finished my wine, nodded gently at Papa, and then handed a ten-dollar tip, unheard of in those days, to the young waitress. I smiled at her, wished the owner of the restaurant a good day, and then walked into the night. Although angered by my father's reaction, I wasn't surprised. Shrugging, I decided to go see Esther.
"My love, you look troubled," Esther said to me as I stood on the doorstep of her apartment, located on Rue St-Michel, within walking distance of the University of Montreal campus. Esther looked so lovely in a crimson sweater and black silk skirt, her face unmade, her eyes glistening in the poor light, that I pulled her into my arms and kissed her.
This young woman had come to mean much to me in those days. Vampires like myself lurk in the shadows, ever weary of the light of day. We're drifters. Esther showed me that I didn't have to be an anonymous face in the crowd, gone before anyone takes notice. Esther showed me her church, her university campus, her life, and I began wanting more. I also began craving her, in more ways than one. I loved this woman, this was no mere dalliance for me, and I wanted to prove Papa wrong.
"I'm much better now that I'm with you," I said to Esther, after we shared a most passionate kiss. Right there in her apartment doorstep, a most romantic gesture, like something out of a movie. Esther looked into my eyes, and I swear, if my undead heart could still beat, it would have been soaring with joy. There was so much I wanted to say to her, so much for her to know. Taking my hand, Esther brought it to her lips and kissed it, then she winked at me.
"Come, I'll make you forget all your troubles," Esther whispered, and just like that, she led me to the bedroom. I followed her as if in a trance. Esther smiled coyly as I stood before her and pushed me on the bed, then disrobed before me. My keen eyes beheld the Haitian beauty in all of her glory, and she came to me, a tantalizing vision that held me captive. Mortal or immortal, what man is beyond the thrall of a beautiful woman? Certainly not I.
