A hundred and eight years ago, in the time before popcorn or Cracker Jacks, an exquisitely beautiful and regal woman from Africa appeared and wandered through the gate into the main square of Brazirabad, India. Her name was the Soul of Africa. She was exceptionally tall, and walked with a stately erect and elegant posture. She had countless fine qualities, and, of all her innumerable fine qualities, what stood out the most was the flawless perfection of her skin—infinitely dark and pitch black. As I said, she was a beautiful, beautiful woman, with such breathtaking beauty that at times it could be difficult to look at her. And her blackest of black skin shone with such clarity and radiance that, if you were close enough, you could see yourself and others around you reflected in her cheeks like a mirror. In other words, she could show you yourself, as if she was the reflection of yourself.