Seana Marena

    A bomb went off in a government building, the first of many that would result in the government declaring a national state of emergency. Thousands would be jailed or worse, secretly executed. Harsh reality spit on my redemptive story.
    The delicate breezes that evening quieted my spinning images of Africa into a softer blur, in which voices sang a music interwoven with the violence crying for redemption. In the midst was the South Afican nightmare.
    Kathy Weir filled me with a passion for South Africa. The evening she did so, she also began to fade from my grasp or any potential intimacy. I was being pulled back. Our lives were not star crossed, but were instead a beautiful accident, one the result of Americans who were uninvited bullying our way into these lives. Through this accident I was with one of Africa's true daughters. For a time my life belonged to Kathy  Weir.
    Later that evening in Johannesburg at 2 am, we went to a bar on Rocky Street. Huddled in a corner surrounded by attentive friends, I met Kathy Weir's future lover, Paul Myburgh.
    Together we would one day film a simple story in Soweto. In Soweto I would hear the music. I walked with Kathy Weir, blurred by the magic that was Kathy Weir's Africa, my state of bliss that evening. Only in Soweto would I understand.