She moved like she was on fire, fuelled by the beguiling rhythm of deep desire. And even though I tried to move along with her, I was stuck – mesmerized more like – to my place. I could only move my head. Even then, I did so cautiously, knowing that my head could not fully capture the essence of the spirit that poured forth through every rhythmic beat, every drop of sweat, every gasp and every humid release of air.
I remained stuck to my place.
Though the lights were off, she stood in the limelight. As her voice echoed through every inch of the orifice that was my ear, I felt a slight tremble as we became one. Her story became my story; her pain, my anguish; her laughter, my joy; and her tremor, my earthquake. At that moment, we were one.
We continued the secret dance that was ours, oblivious of the presence of any other in the room. Truth be told, we cared less. The world be damned. This was our time. Enthralled and totally vanquished by her, I let myself float in to her world.
I saw life through her eyes.
She didn't need to talk anymore. Just a smile, a glance, a subtle tilting of the head was all I needed to read the deep thoughts that ran through her mind. At that point, we were one.
As she dismounted, a pained smile danced across my face. She was good. Compelling. Deep. Persuasive. She was gone.
As the lights came one and all the actors took their bow, I was glad I had seen the stage play, SARAFINA. The actors were good, but the lead actress was – well, just too good.
Kudos to our South African brothers for a story so deep and moving, it should be called the African story. Kudos to the lead actress, Sarafina.