by Tony Hemrix

In the fertile lands of Casamance, where sacred forests whisper ancient secrets to the initiated, a legend has been passed down for generations. Only the griots dare to sing it. It tells of a man, a golden dragon, and a forgotten oath.

Daouda Sané was a master of the balafon, a musician whose melodies enchanted crowds and stirred hearts. His gift, inherited from his ancestors, knew no bounds, but his soul, hungry for knowledge and recognition, longed for more. He wanted his music to be heard beyond the world of men, in the realm where only spirits and deities listen.

It was said that in the forbidden marshes, where mist rises before dawn and reflections deceive travelers, lived a creature feared by all: the Ninki Nanka. This ancient dragon, guardian of the waters and of time itself, appeared only to the bravest souls. Some claimed it granted immeasurable wealth to those who could charm it, while others swore that no man ever returned alive from its presence.

But Daouda, driven by ambition, ignored the elders’ warnings and ventured into the swamp, his balafon slung over his shoulder, convinced that his music could soothe even the most formidable spirits.

When the immense form of the Ninki Nanka emerged from the mist, its scales gleamed like gold under the fading twilight. Faced with this apparition, Daouda did not tremble. He let his hands glide over the keys of his instrument, and a song was born, rising into the thick, humid air. The music wove itself into the trees, rippled through the water, and wrapped around the monster itself.

Then, in deep silence, the Ninki Nanka granted Daouda a reward beyond measure. A warm breath swept over the musician, and in an instant, his body was covered in gold, his garments transformed into luxurious fabrics, his feet resting upon a ground now scattered with glistening treasures. Around him, wealth had materialized, a dazzling reflection of his talent and courage.

But while gold shines, the true trial remains unseen.

Upon his return to the village, Daouda Sané was welcomed as a hero. The griots sang his name, kings coveted his talent, and merchants traveled great distances just to glimpse the man blessed by the spirits. Yet, beneath the festivities, whispers began to spread. Where had this sudden fortune come from? What bargains had been struck in the depths of the marsh? The gold, a gift from the spirits, carried a silent curse: that of mistrust and envy.

The village elders, wary, called for an assembly. History had seen many men rise and fall because of gifts from the spirit world. And what if the Ninki Nanka’s gold was merely a test, one designed to weigh the heart of the musician?

It was then that the Kankourang appeared.

A spirit of rituals and guardian of tradition, he was the enforcer of the initiated, the protector of souls still vulnerable to the temptations of the world. His mask of bark concealed his gaze, but his silence commanded more authority than any king. Slowly, he approached Daouda, studying the true nature of his soul.

In the dust of the earth, a circle was drawn. If Daouda’s gold was pure, it would nourish his people and flourish. But if it was the result of a misunderstood trial, it would ultimately consume him.

The days that followed were a silent lesson for Daouda Sané. Understanding the weight of the gift he had received, he used his fortune to serve his people. He built schools, honored the sacred rites, and offered his music to those who needed it rather than those who sought to buy it. Slowly, suspicion faded, replaced by respect and admiration.

Yet, in the shadows, jealousy had not died. One night, a stranger crept into Daouda’s home, attempting to steal his sacred balafon. In the struggle, one of its wooden slats broke. That night, the Kankourang returned.

Under the pale moonlight, justice was carried out. And by morning, as the village awoke, the story of the theft and the punishment had already woven itself into collective memory. But before vanishing again, the Kankourang left behind one final lesson: gold means nothing if it is not accompanied by a greater legacy. What survives a man is not his wealth, but the mark he leaves in the hearts of his people.

Daouda Sané lived the rest of his days as a master of the balafon, no longer as a man of gold, but as a man of wisdom. And long after he was gone, his name continued to resonate in the melodies of the griots and the stories of the elders.

Even today, in the villages of Casamance, when the wind carries the distant sound of a balafon, some say it is not just music. It is the echo of the oath of the Ninki Nanka, reminding those who know how to listen that every gift from the spirits is a test… and that only the memory of men decides who becomes a legend.