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To Patricia
You are remembered
1
Ayanda couldn’t stop looking at the clock – 6:30pm, and the minutes were ticking away. If he didn’t call by seven, she’d miss the deadline. She needed this story. She promised her editor she’d have something for this issue. He knew she was working on something big and had left some space on the cover of the newspaper until the very last minute, against normal practice.
Now here she was, thirty minutes to the deadline, and she still had nothing. Why wasn’t her source calling? She kept staring at the phone, hoping to get it to ring by sheer force of will. She’d tried his cellphone, but it had been off all day. She was getting worried.
“Okay, we’re off.”
Ayanda looked up. Her friends Kiki and Jabu were going for drinks at Selly’s, their local hangout. “Sure you can’t make it?” Kiki asked. “All work and no play makes Ayanda a very dull girl.”
“Maybe, but all play and very little work makes Kiki not very likely to get a promotion,” Ayanda teased her best friend. They’d been friends since they were kids growing up in Soweto. They’d gone to Wits University together and were lucky enough both to get jobs at The Joburg Tribune, she on the city desk and Kiki in the entertainment section.
Although the two were tight, they were very different people. Whereas Ayanda was serious about being a journalist, Kiki liked the fluff she generated for the entertainment pages. Kiki’s biggest dream was to meet Mr Right at one of the many parties she needed to attend as part of her job. She had what seemed an endless trail of first dates behind her – disastrous ones that gave Ayanda and Jabu many hours of amusement when Kiki related them, in all their gory detail.
“Have it your way. Not all of us are shooting for Journalist of the Year,” Kiki said, crinkling her powdered nose at Ayanda as she used her compact to reapply her trademark lipstick.
“Let’s go, Ki,” Jabu said, pushing Kiki towards the door as she tried to put the compact and lipstick back in her fake Louis Vuitton handbag. “Ayanda, you know where to find us if you finish early. But I’ll be home by seven-thirty. Big WBO fight on SuperSport. Can’t miss that.”
Ayanda had met Jabu when they started at the paper. She remembered how she recognised a hunger in his eyes, a hunger she was familiar with because it was akin to the one that had been driving her for as far back as she could remember. A hunger for success. Jabu had dreamt of being a sports reporter since the days he stood on the sidelines, reporting the match in his mock radio voice while his friends kicked a soccer ball made of plastic bags up and down a dusty field. He was crazy about sports and would go without food to get tickets to a boxing match or soccer game. After matric, he started as a freelancer at the paper. It didn’t take long before the big bosses saw his passion and hired him permanently.
At the door, Jabu turned back with an understanding smile. “Don’t worry. He’ll call.”
Ayanda smiled back and watched them leave, but the smile lingered on her lips only until she saw the time: 6:40pm! What was going on? Her source, a guy named Mogolo, had promised her tonight was the night.
She hoped nothing had happened to him. He was in a gang of callous men who didn’t hesitate to put a knife or bullet into anyone who betrayed them, and Mogolo was in the process of doing just that. He wanted out and hoped if he worked with Ayanda and the story about their dealings broke, the gang leaders would be arrested and he could slip away. In their world, it was impossible to quit. His was by definition a permanent job and Mogolo was trying to find a way out of it – a very dangerous way, unfortunately.
Ayanda had been working on this story for some time now because she really needed something big. Daniel, the city desk editor, and the big boss, the editor of the paper, Mr Hank Molete, expected a lot from her since her story on corruption at the Pretoria police. She had uncovered a group of officers there who were being paid to lose dockets so cases would have to be dropped. It was a huge story that led to an investigation of the entire police service and an award for the paper.
Since then she’d had stories, but nothing that big. People were beginning to talk. Ayanda didn’t want to be considered just a one-hit wonder; she expected more from herself. She intended to be the best investigative reporter South Africa had ever produced. As soon as she’d found Mogolo, she got an itch that told her this story was going to be big. She prayed she hadn’t lost her lead just when she was about to get started.
The phone rang and she let out a sigh of relief. Good. A glance at the clock – 6:50pm. As long as she had the information, Daniel promised, they’d save her front-page space if she could get her story to layout by 8:00pm. She was fine. Everything was going to be fine. She lifted the receiver. “Hello, Ayanda Nkosi.”
“Hi, it’s me, Sipho.”
Ayanda’s expectations fell and her eyes drifted to the ever-moving second hand.
Sipho. Sipho Dlamini, one of the most famous businessmen in the country. Managing director of Egoli Investments, a gold-mining company, a BEE success story. A celebrity, always seen with the hottest new singing sensation or TV actress on the arm. The most eligible bachelor in Gauteng. Ayanda should have been delighted, but they’d gone out on two dates already and she wasn’t sure it was working. It was especially not working now, when she had less than ten minutes to get a call from her source.
“Listen, Sipho, I can’t talk now. I’m waiting for a call. I’ll phone you back later.”
“Uhm . . . okay . . . bye then.” He sounded rattled. Sipho Dlamini wasn’t used to someone putting him off.
Ayanda hung up.
She knew it was rude to be so short with him, but she was down to eight minutes and she couldn’t risk the phone being engaged for a single one of them. And besides, she didn’t think she should encourage Sipho. She was coming to the conclusion that he was not her type.
On their last date he took her to the ballet, and then to some overpriced restaurant in Sandton where the bill came to more than she paid for her car each month and she didn’t recognise any of the food as being edible. They were two very different people. For him everything revolved around his image. He was all about acquiring stuff: the big house, the big cars, the overseas trips, the tailored suits, the bling. He wanted to be seen at all the right places, like the ballet and the snobby restaurant in Sandton, even if he didn’t enjoy those places. It was all about the image, the money and the image.
That just wasn’t Ayanda. She thought life should have a bigger purpose. Her job and what she could do for her country was important to her. It didn’t matter what she earned or what she owned or who she knew. What mattered was who she loved and how she took care of them. Her focus was on what she could do with her talents to make South Africa a better place. That was what mattered, not whether she drove a Lamborghini or a Lexus. All she wanted was a car that started when you turned the key; what it looked like was of no concern.
Ayanda thought Sipho and Kiki might be a better match. Her friend was tall and fashionable, much like the women Sipho was usually seen with in the pages of the gossip mags. So unlike Ayanda, who usually went without make-up, in jeans and tackies, with her hair plaited. She wondered what Sipho even wanted with her anyway; she was so not his type. No, he and Kiki were a much better match.
Ayanda had considered fixing them up, but then stopped
