Читать книгу Can He be the One? - Lauri Kubuitsile - Страница 4

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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 along the way. Why? Why did she hesitate to get rid of him when she knew they had so little in common? She couldn’t deny that she found Sipho attractive. He was tall, with a stocky build that made her seem small next to him. It made her feel he’d protect her from whoever or whatever attempted to harm her. He kept his head clean-shaven, a look Ayanda preferred, particularly if the man had a face as beautiful as his. She especially loved his sexy, full lips and perfect white teeth when he smiled, a smile that hinted at the naughty boy he could be. Eish! The first time he smiled at her – just her – she caught her breath and held the edge of the table to slow the world down.

Ayanda couldn’t deny it: Sipho was an extremely good-looking man. But she was old enough to have learned how to recognise physical attraction for what it was – a passing mix of biological chemicals. Once they wore off, you were left with the person, and Ayanda was pretty sure Sipho’s person held little interest for her. They were just too different for anything else to develop between them. She was almost completely sure about that. Almost.

The relentless Joburg traffic continued unabated outside the open window, so Ayanda was surprised at how loudly the long hand on the clock slipped to 12, making a resounding click. She knew Daniel would be sticking his head out of the office any second now to hear if they’d had success. She gave the phone one last grudging look, as if it were to blame for letting her down. And there it was – the head.

“So did the source come through?” Daniel asked, leaning from his desk into the doorway of his cramped office at the end of the aisle of cubicles.

“No, sorry. I don’t know what happened.” She hated letting her editor down; he had so much faith in her.

Daniel got up and came out to stand by her desk. “So what’s the plan then?” He looked worried. Ayanda didn’t know if the concern was because he could see she was dis­appointed or because he feared she wasn’t quite as bright a star as he had thought. She hoped it was the former.

“Tomorrow I’ll go and look for him and see what happened. If I can’t find him, I’ll have to find another way to get the story. I can’t let it go. I just know it’s something big.”

Daniel smiled. “Good, that’s what I want to hear . . . Listen, Ayanda, I’ve seen plenty of reporters come through these doors and I know who has it and who doesn’t. They can’t teach you that kind of thing up at Wits. It’s in here.” He pounded his heart. “You’ve got it, my girl. I have no doubt about that, and you shouldn’t either.”

Ayanda looked up at his thin, wrinkled face, ashen from too many years of being stuck in newsrooms, chasing the next story and getting it into print. His permanently smudged glasses sat precariously on the tip of his nose. Daniel Bateman was a legend in South African journalism and Ayanda knew he didn’t squander praise. “Thanks,” she said.

Then Daniel shouted so his voice could be heard over the wall to the other side where the layout people waited to finish the last pages. “That’s it! Put it to bed, folks!”

Daniel went back to his office and Ayanda started packing up to go home; it was no use sticking around. She’d find Mogolo in the morning.

She stood up and was about to leave when she looked back at the phone. Though she wasn’t quite sure why she was doing it, she picked it up and dialled Sipho’s number.

“Hi, it’s me, Ayanda . . . Sorry about earlier. I was waiting for a call.”

“Not from another guy, I hope,” he said.

“No, I was waiting for a source.” Though she feigned annoyance, inside she was surprised to find his jealous words pleased her. “So what’s up?”

“I wanted to see if you had time in your busy schedule for dinner with a lonely bachelor. I had a lovely time on Saturday. I thought we might give it a repeat.”

Ayanda hesitated. A repeat of ballet and food that looked like something a baby had brought up? She didn’t think she could stand that. “I don’t know . . . I . . .” She didn’t want to insult him, but if they were going on another date, the very least she wanted was a meal that filled her stomach. If anything was going to come of this, she needed to be honest. “Okay, listen . . . I need to tell you, I don’t really like ballet.”

Sipho laughed and Ayanda imagined his mouth curving up into a smile, and those lips . . . and those beautiful teeth . . . She slipped back into her chair. Yes, there definitely was something going on here.

“I sort of guessed that when you fell asleep,” he said.

“I didn’t!” Ayanda protested, though she wasn’t absolutely sure about that. The ballet had been very long and very, very boring.

“Oh yes, I’m afraid you did. But I was happy to hear that you don’t snore.” Sipho laughed again and this time Ayanda joined him. Maybe she had fallen asleep. Well, either way, at least he knew how she really felt. “I promise, if you agree to go out with me, there’ll be no ballet – and I noticed you weren’t too keen on the food either.”

“Ao! Mr Detective, maybe you should be the investigative journalist instead of me,” Ayanda said, surprised at how observant he’d been.

“No, I don’t think I’m brave enough for that.”

Ayanda thought she heard a bit of respect in those teasing words. It wasn’t often she met a man who respected her career. Sipho Dlamini was becoming more interesting by the minute. Most men assumed she was merely killing time until she got married and had kids. They didn’t consider that women might have career plans just like them. Maybe she was writing Sipho off a bit too soon.

“So what do you say, Ms Nkosi?” he asked again. “This time I promise I’ll make sure the restaurant has steak and ribs on the menu, and the only dancing will be done by you and me.”

Ayanda sat back in her chair. “Okay, Mr Dlamini, you’re on.”

“Saturday night. Should I pick you up at home?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Great . . . Ayanda, I . . .”

Sipho Dlamini – uncertain twice in one day? Ayanda suddenly wondered if she really knew this man at all.

“I just wanted to say I’m glad you said yes to another date. You’re so different from the women I usually go out with . . . I . . . I’m excited to get to know you better.”

Ayanda hung up the phone. Despite her story hitting a dead end, she was smiling as she headed home.