by Antonio Napoli
Once upon a time, in the land of Africa, there was a city called Djenné, crossed by the Bani River. Long ago, that river had been a great serpent gliding through the sky, but out of pride, it was condemned to crawl upon the earth. As it aged, it transformed into a slow-moving stream with silvery reflections.
In Djenné, people gazed at their reflections in the river’s waters, in the copper and silver surfaces of their crafted goods, and, of course, in the many mirrors that adorned their homes and gleamed in the markets. Never had a city been more splendid and radiant. Its inhabitants had grown accustomed to seeing their own faces reflected everywhere, showing little interest in the faces of others and no longer lifting their eyes to the sky in prayer, as was once proper.
One day, the god worshipped by that proud and vain people descended from the heavens to teach them a harsh lesson. He took the form of an old wanderer: thin, wrapped in a coarse woolen cloak, with a seashell hanging from his neck, a crooked staff in his hand, and a black band over his eyes. As he begged for alms and aid, no one stopped to help him. Offended by their indifference, the god cast his punishment.
At dawn, the city awoke orphaned of its reflections. The mirrors had vanished. Not just them—every reflective glass, every polished surface capable of returning an image had disappeared into nothingness. And the river, once clear as a silver mirror, had turned murky as mud.
At first, the people laughed, thinking it a prank played by the spirits. But soon, they realized the gravity of their loss: no one could see their own face anymore.
— If we can no longer see ourselves, let us learn to be mirrors for one another, someone suggested.
And so, those who wished to know their appearance had to rely on the eyes and words of others.
From that day on, everywhere one could hear the same questions:
— Tell me, how do I look? What does my face look like today?
And this was where the problem arose: the absence of mirrors turned into the absence of truth.
Some spoke honestly, some exaggerated, and some lied. Out of envy or malice, some told beautiful men and women they were hideous, and these, at first incredulous, then desperate, shut themselves away in their homes. Others deceived the elderly, telling them they looked young, and they, blinded by illusion, fell into grotesque vanity. Friends, out of affection, would tell someone they had the face of a king, while whispering to rivals that they looked like beggars.
And then there were the jokers:
— You have an elephant’s nose!
— You have serpent’s eyes!
— Your lips are as long as an okapi’s!
Confusion spread like the wind running unchecked across the desert kingdom. No one knew whom to believe anymore. Devoted husbands began to doubt their faithful wives, lifelong friends eyed each other with suspicion, merchants—now stripped of their mask of cunning—lost their regular customers (which was not necessarily a bad thing). Without their reflections, no one was certain of who they truly were.
It was then that the god, irritated by all this chaos, decided to return.
On the riverbank, a child appeared. He untied the large seashell from around his neck, filled it with water, and gazed inside. His face smiled back at him, clear and bright. He called the adults, but none of them could see anything in the shell’s hollow.
— Why can I see myself while you cannot? — the child asked.
— Because my heart is clear, and the water reflects its truth. Do the same. Free yourselves of suspicion and hypocrisy.
And so, the people of Djenné understood that more than seeing their own faces, it was important to know their own souls. From that day on, instead of asking, “How do I look?” they began to ask, “Who am I truly?”
And as they sought the truth, the river slowly became clear again. Then, one morning, the mirrors reappeared in their homes. But few used them anymore, for they had learned to see themselves through the sincere eyes of those who loved them.
And so, Djenné once again became a city of light. Not because it had regained its reflections, but because it had found the truth.