In New York: Children of Apartheid Meet Broadway

Pouring out of the subway into a neon twilight, the band of teenagers shoulder through Broadway crowds. Past the Winter Garden where Cats plays on, past Dunkin' Donuts' 46 varieties, past the topless temptresses of movie marquees, past the T-Shirt Express, past the half-hour photo store, past the mendicant * saxophone player on the corner. Decked out, some in black leather jackets, others in pink high-tops and bobby-sox, a jaunty tweed cap here, a brightly colored scarf there, they jaywalk across 48th Street in twos and threes, dodging yellow taxis. Quick! Into an alley, up a metal staircase and through an entrance marked STAGE DOOR.

From the townships of Zululand to the Great White Way, the cast of Sarafina! has traveled 8,000 miles, a sudden trip into future shock. At first the idea had seemed preposterous: a musical about apartheid played by the victims. Twenty-two Africans, ages 14 and up, were recruited from the corrugated-metal and concrete shacks of KwaMashu, Umlazi and other sprawling, neglected settlements separated from the prosperity of white South Africa. Honed into a humming, exuberant whole by Playwright-Director Mbongeni Ngema, they have turned convention on its head with a triumphant spirit and rollicking rhythm that transcend politics. In its ninth month, the show is a sold-out hit, readying spin-offs for Tokyo, London and Kingston.

An hour before curtain, in the basement of the 1,100-seat Cort Theater, the kids assemble for a voice lesson under a maze of heating pipes and lighting wires. Take-out fried chicken, quarts of Tropicana are put aside. "Feel how loose your tongue is! Baaa, baaa, baaa," exhorts the teacher, an ivory- skinned redhead, hammering on a piano key with her index finger. The kids imitate the sound and start giggling. "Don't laugh at each other! We're here to learn!" scolds the redhead. Silence. Then a few whispers in Zulu. "Heee, heee, haaa, haaa!" sings the teacher. More giggles. When class is finally dismissed, the kids clatter up a narrow staircase, whistling and ululating. The doors are plastered with bumper stickers: KIDS ZONE, BABYLAND BLVD, I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND.

Despite the teen trappings, a sense of mission infuses Sarafina!, a portrait of repression and rebellion at a Soweto high school. During "notes," a 15- minute discussion of finer points in the performance, the kids jump up to argue with the assistant director, Mali Hlatshwayo, in rapid-fire Zulu. He thumps his chest. "Emotion," explains one of the cast. At the stage door, starstruck American youngsters gather for autographs, but the kids of Sarafina! don't preen like the show horses of your average chorus line. The girls are mostly hefty. The boys tend toward skinny. Plain faces, remarkably ordinary. Bopping and hopping onstage, they maintain a wary reserve off-hours. Their English is lilting, halting, and political questions are turned aside for fear of reprisals back home. Five minutes before curtain, a hush falls over the backstage. They gather for a nightly ritual, heads bent in prayer. Soft voices rise and fall in a Zulu chant. In the corridor, band members stop short and bow their heads. The doorman, a flush-cheeked Irishman, respectfully removes his cap. "I've never seen this kind of dedication," he murmurs.