In his 1987 article, ‘The History of the Great Mosques of Djenné’, architectural historian, Jean-Louis Bourgeois, tells us that evidence pertaining to the original Mosque thought to be built in the 13th century is murky at best. Bourgeois points us to an oral tradition in which one Koi Konboro, the ruler of Djenné, converted to Islam and built the mosque only after attempting to exile or kill a Muslim cleric named Ismaila of whom he grew suspicious. After Konboro’s efforts were thwarted seemingly by divine intervention, Konboro converted to Islam and had the mosque built. The Mosque, ‘the pride of Djenne’, was from then on replastered every year until the 19th century, ‘when it met a formidable adversary in Sekou Amadou,’ founder of the Fulbe Empire at Masina, less than 500 kilometres from Djenné. Malian historian, Amadou Hampâté Bâ, writes in his 2021 book, Amkoullel, the Fula Boy, that Sekou Amadou was the ‘elder son’ of El Hadj Omar, also known as ‘Umar Tal. ‘Umar Tal established the Tukulor empire in the 1850s spanning from the inland upper Senegal River to the Niger River bend. Though it would be ‘Umar Tal’s nephew, Tidjani Tall, who would succeed the king and establish his base at Massina 400 kilometres west of Djenné, Amadou would gain control of Bandigara, less than 200 kilometres to Djenné’s east. Launching a Fulbe-led Islamic reformist movement, he erected his own mosque at his capital of Hamdallahi, requiring that all citizens attend this mosque, at the expense of the others. Bourgeois writes that, ‘before Amadou built his own mosque in Djenné, it is likely that he refused to allow proper maintenance of the old one.’ Moreover, though appeals on the preservation of the mosque flooded his court, Amadou and his council, ‘decided that the mosque should be abandoned entirely, claiming the Moroccans who conquered Djenné in 1591 had corrupted the monument.’ In the final hour, ‘subterfuge’ prevailed when Amadou, ‘plugged the Great Mosque’s gutters,’ and ‘rain collected in a pool on the roof, which collapsed, exposing the mosque’s massive earthen pillars,’—the importance of the annual restoration as both an architectural and social process revealed.

But it is not just that Amadou destroyed the mosque, leaving its ruins, and rebuilt another a few kilometres east. He also spun intricate webs of historical fabrication, which suggests the mosque was rebuilt a number of times, including once by the notable Askia Muhammad of the Songhay empire before its collapse due to Moroccan invasion. Ultimately, Amadou saw the mosque and the history of the mosque as a tool to justify his rule and his actions—for a Muslim to destroy a mosque is perhaps one of the highest transgressions. Nevertheless, each fabrication, regardless of their status of untruth, is part of the collective tapestry that makes up the history of Djenné. Amadou illustrates how one applies history as a tool, rather than an end to itself.

Social anthropologist, Trevor H.J. Marchand, writes in his 2015 essay, ‘The Djenné Mosque: World Heritage and Social Renewal in a West African Town’, that Djenné would fully fall into the hands of French colonialism in 1893. Amadou’s reign, Hampâté Bâ tells us, would come to an end at the hands of the French, who by 1897 drove him out towards the Sokoto Caliphate region closer to modern-day Burkina Faso.  In 1906, the French ‘razed’ Amadou’s ‘ascetic mosque that same year, and in its place, they erected a [madrasa] to school their new colonial subjects in both French and Arabic language.’ That same year, they also initiated the reconstruction of the ‘weatherworn ruins of Koi Konboro’s original structure.’ However, as both Marchand and Bourgeois argue, while the French had the so-called right of rule, it was Africans who dealt with the logistics of the reconstruction.

Bourgeois writes that the people of Djenné were at a ‘crossroads’ because ‘the issue, crucial to the city’s identity, was to choose between versions of it’s past.’ The crossroads was a trivariate: One, to build on the site of the ruined mosque completing, ‘the process of demolition that Sekou Amadou himself had dared only to initiate.’ Two, building on open land, and three, building on the site of Amadou’s Mosque, the option which prevailed to the dismay of the Fulbe. Yet, the utility of history emerges again. Oumar Sanfo, a notable 19th century Muslim ‘savant’ critical to the resistance against Amadou, ‘quietly invited the French to raze Amadou’s Mosque,’ so that the ‘sin of obliterating the mosque was transferred to them.’ The most contemporary iteration of the Great Mosque of Djenné, seemingly erected by French colonialism, is actually part of the intricate narrative of Malian intrigue, beginning with Koi Konboro.