style="font-size:15px;"> “Finally,” Kiki said, moving over to make space for Ayanda.
“Sorry, I was over at Central; some ATM break-in. I wanted to write it up and get it in tomorrow’s issue. I’m spending so much time on this other story, I’m not getting anything else done.” Ayanda sat back, letting her head rest against the back of the booth, trying to let the day’s stresses melt away. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly while trying to forget about stinky bars, flighty sources and rich men with oversized bouquets.
“Well, at least you made it,” Jabu said. Then he lowered his voice and hissed, “Ronnie at two o’clock.”
Ayanda looked up and felt her stress level go up two notches. Ronnie Zulu was another reporter on the city desk. He had been the up-and-coming bright spark until she arrived. As soon as the Pretoria police story hit, Ronnie placed Ayanda at the top of his list of enemies.
“Hey, I heard your source baled,” he said, coming up to their booth.
Selly’s was a hangout for many of the city’s journalists, so it was no surprise seeing him there. Still, Ayanda was in no mood for Ronnie and his heavy bag of jealousy, nor did she see anything to be gained by letting him in on the fact that her story was progressing just fine. “Yes, well . . . that’s the way it goes sometimes. Life of a journalist. There’ll be other stories.”
“Yes, maybe. But it’s not about a lucky break – it’s about skill. Some have it, some don’t. Maybe it’s time you joined your friend at entertainment. I think it suits you better now that you’re dating someone from the bling-bling crowd.”
Ayanda was about to answer when Jabu stepped in. “Ronnie, it’s embarrassing how threatened you are by Ayanda. We’re all working for the same team here, right?”
“Threatened? Yeah – right.” But it seemed to work. Ronnie turned and walked away.
Ayanda gave Jabu a grateful look.
“And so?” Kiki said, turning to face her friend.
“And so what?” Ayanda asked, clueless.
“And so I thought you were like done with Sipho Dlamini?”
“Yes, me too.” Ayanda wasn’t sure she was ready to talk about her situation with him. How could she talk about something she knew nothing about? Her mind was as confused as ever about the man.
“That card didn’t sound like he’s over you,” Kiki said.
“Did everyone in the building read my card?” Ayanda asked.
Jabu laughed. “It’s a newspaper, sifuna izindaba.”
Ayanda had to laugh. “I guess I’m no better. I’d have read it too.”
Kiki was like a pit bull. She flipped her long weave over her shoulder and leaned into her friend. “So? What’s the story?”
Ayanda had little power against a full-on Kiki onslaught. “Okay . . . but seriously off the record, okay? I don’t want to see this showing up in those high-society columns. I know Sipho is one of your readers’ darlings.”
“Eish, you’re no fun at all! Fine . . . all right . . . But you know, if I don’t write it, someone else will. Sipho Dlamini’s hot stuff . . . Okay, honest – I won’t repeat anything. Spill!” Kiki ordered.
Ayanda started reluctantly, because she was still unsure of what she really felt. “I don’t know . . . he’s not my type at all. But then . . . he’s dead sexy. And I hate to say it, but he’s so manly, like he just takes over and . . . I know you two won’t believe it . . . but I like that.”
“You? . . . You like being bossed around? First I heard,” Jabu said.
“It’s not as if he’s bossed me around; it’s just that he takes control. So I can relax. I guess it makes me feel safe. Well, and then there’s that smile . . .”
“Oh girl, I wondered when you were going to get to that!” Kiki said. “I saw him once at one of these charity auctions with his shirt off. Have you seen that pretty picture yet?”
Jabu put his hands out in front of his face as if to shield himself. “Hey, hey! Male in the house! Can we change the topic?” he said. “I can take a lot of girl talk from you two, but Sipho’s six-pack is going a bit far.”
Kiki relented. “Okay, Jabu. For you, my dear brother, we’ll leave Mr Dlamini’s abdomen for another time.” She took a sip of her fluorescent pink champagne cocktail. “Then let’s talk about my latest date from hell.”
Jabu looked at Ayanda, rolling his eyes. “I’m starting to think you actually attract those freaks.”
Kiki considered that for a moment. Her face became concerned. “Maybe . . . You think people can really do that?”
“I don’t know. But what is this? Date from hell number fifteen or sixteen?” Jabu asked.
“Eighteen, but who’s counting besides me? . . . Anyway, our number eighteen is a guy named Omar,” Kiki said.
Ayanda called the waitress to bring them another round; she knew they would likely be there for a while to hear all about poor Omar and whatever afflictions and shortcomings he had. Kiki’s stories about her dates from hell usually took some time.
“Omar? Where’s he from?” Ayanda asked.
“His parents are from Saudi Arabia, but he was born here in South Africa.”
“So what did Omar do that was so wrong?” Jabu asked. “I feel sorry for him already.”
Kiki smiled a sad smile. “Yeah, in many ways, I don’t blame Omar. It’s not really his fault, you know. Sometimes people would just be better off as orphans.”
Ayanda frowned, wondering where this was going.
“He’s thirty-three and he still lives with his mother.” Kiki liked to drop small bits of information at a time. Ayanda thought her friend might do better writing fiction than feature stories on socialites and handbags, maybe even detective books; she knew how to lead her listener to the answer one clue at a time.
“So what? Times are tough; a lot of people live with their parents until they get married,” Jabu said. He always gave people the benefit of the doubt.
“Okay, fine,” Kiki conceded. “I met him in a chatroom for single South Africans. We’d been talking online for a few weeks and along the way he dropped some hints about the kind of women he’s into. I sort of liked his firm opinions. He seemed to know exactly what he wanted. That’s like a good thing, right?”
“Yeah, so what went wrong?” Jabu said.
Ayanda kept quiet; she knew these dating stories all too well. She’d been hearing them since she and Kiki started dating in high school. Something had definitely gone wrong and Kiki would soon tell them; they only needed to be patient.
“Well, first he said he liked long hair on women. So I went and got this weave. And it wasn’t cheap – I dipped deep into my savings. Real human hair, not the
