Читать книгу Can He be the One? - Lauri Kubuitsile - Страница 5

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Mornings were always hectic for Ayanda. She lived in Soweto, in a tiny council house her mother had purchased on her teacher’s salary before she died. Two bedrooms and one bathroom for three adult women and a baby were a bit of a squeeze. Ayanda shared one of the rooms with her elder sister, Thembi.

Thembi worked in the emergency room at the Charlotte Maxeke Hospital. Ten years ago, at the death of their mother, the only parent they’d ever known, Thembi had stepped into her mother’s shoes, and she still fancied herself in that role, even though they were grown up now.

“Ayanda! You’d better get yourself out of bed or you’re going to be late for work,” Thembi said, passing by the bedroom door in a blur of white. “Pinky! If I’m dropping Buhle at daycare, you’d better put some clothes on the child or I’ll leave without her!”

Pinky was the youngest. She worked as a seamstress at Shivani Textiles, one of the many companies owned by Sipho’s Egoli Investments. That was where Ayanda first met him one day when she was waiting for Pinky to knock off work.

To Thembi’s great disappointment, Pinky had refused to go for further education after barely passing her ma­tric. She got a day job and lived the life of a party girl almost every night, much against her eldest sister’s church-going ways. For almost a year the house rang with the sound of their fighting. Ayanda kept out of it, mostly because she could understand how both her sisters felt. She didn’t like watching Pinky throw her life away, but at the same time she had grown tired of Thembi’s bossy ways. They all needed to live their own lives.

When Pinky fell pregnant, the arguments escalated and hit an eardrum-popping level when the baby’s father turned out to be a thug called Bushe. Thembi loved Pinky’s daughter, Buhle, as if she was her own, but wanted nothing to do with Bushe and made that preference known loudly and regularly.

“What are you doing with a gangster like that? Mama must be turning in her grave,” Thembi exclaimed one day.

Pinky wasn’t going to have the man she loved being discredited like that. “So when did you become an expert on who is and who isn’t a gangster, eh, Thembi? Is that yet another thing they teach you at nursing school?”

Thembi stood up, placing her hands on her ample hips, preparing her sisters for one of her lectures in the voice Ayanda and Pinky called the Mama-left-me-in-charge voice. “Anyone with a scrap of sense can see that boy is a criminal. I wouldn’t be surprised if he owned a gun. I suggest you end the relationship as soon as possible. We can’t let this innocent baby grow up around a man like that. God knows what types will be loitering around here if I let this go on any longer.”

Ayanda sat quietly in the corner. She knew better than to intervene on either side.

Pinky shot to her feet, ready for a face-off with her eldest sister, but Thembi had almost 100 kg on her, so the move didn’t gain her any points. Still, her balled fists and the way she hopped from one foot to the other told Ayanda that Pinky was in a serious fighting mood.

“For your information, Thembi, I run my own life. I don’t know if you noticed or not, but I’m an adult. I’ll see who I want!”

“Not as long as you live in my house,” Thembi said.

Ayanda could feel the pressure push up a few hundred notches.

“Your house?” Pinky screeched. “When Mama died, she left it to all of us! This is my house and Ayanda’s house as much as it’s yours! I’ll be with whoever I want! You’re just jealous because you’ll soon be an old maid!”

Thembi’s face couldn’t hide the wound Pinky’s words had inflicted. She walked away and a fragile, precarious silence fell.

Since then the three sisters had managed a shaky peace in the house, mostly through Bushe not coming around when Thembi was there, and Thembi never mentioning him again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was working, at least for the time being.

Ayanda needed to get up. She looked at the time – 7:15am. Not too early to call a gangster, she thought. Grabbing her cellphone, she tried Mogolo’s number again. She was happy to hear it ringing. She hoped that meant he was still alive.

“Yebo?” said a groggy female voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi . . . Can I speak to Mogolo?”

The woman didn’t respond. After a few seconds, Aya­nda heard her source’s voice, “Yeah?”

“Mogolo, it’s Ayanda Nkosi, the reporter. What happened last night? You said you’d call me.”

“Yeah, okay . . . something . . . uhm . . . came up. Let’s hook up later, about eleven o’clock, at Chillers. Do you know the place?”

Ayanda agreed to meet him. She jumped out of bed, thankful her story was back on track.

* * *

When she arrived at the office there was an over-the-top bouquet of flowers on her desk, courtesy of Sipho, with a note everyone had taken pleasure in reading before Ayanda arrived. It said:

Can’t wait to see you on Saturday! Sipho

By the time Ayanda left to see Mogolo, she was sick to death of all the comments about her and her “rich lover”.

The meeting with her source was unsettling. Ayanda arrived at the dark, cave-like bar just before eleven. She stepped in and had to take a minute to adjust to the darkness and the stench of stale beer, vomit and urine. Cleanliness was obviously not high on the owner’s agenda, nor that of the clientele. She spotted Mogolo in an even darker corner. He was sitting at a table and looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. He sat facing the door and hardly took his nervous eyes from it while they spoke.

“Reetsa, my sister . . . this is serious shit. I could die here. You hear me? I could die. We need to be careful. It’s serious . . . serious shit.”

“Yes, I get it. But don’t worry; I never reveal my sources. I know the situation. I’ll make sure you’re gone before we run with anything that could put you in danger.”

“Nothing in that paper of yours until I’m gone – free and klaar. You hear? I got bucks now. I’m ready. But nothing until I’m history. Got it?”

“Of course. That’s what we agreed,” Ayanda assured him. “So tell me, what’s going on?”

“Okay, it’s like this. We cross the border; usually the boss goes proper-like to organise the meeting and we sneak over through the bush, me and Lulu – we don’t want shit from the border cops. That side in Zim we got a guy the Boere hooked us up with. He’s from DRC and stuff.” He stopped and looked to the side where someone came out of the toilet, the only other person who was in the bar that early in the morning – an old man, dead drunk before lunch, and looking as if it was a daily occurrence.

Once Mogolo realised there was no threat, he continued. “So like these Boere, they are some serious big shots in the mine industry. They want this gold from DRC to up the money they take home. They wash it clean through their books or something; I don’t know how it all works. I never met those Boere. Only the boss does that. Me and Lulu just meet this DRC guy and get the gold, give him the cash, and bring it over through the bush, so no one sees anything. The boss takes it from there. But this is big stuff. Really big.”

“So do you know anything about the company that’s involved? Its name? Or the names of those Afrikaners? Anything I could go on?” Ayanda asked.

A wave of paranoia swept over Mogolo. “Listen, I said you need to keep this quiet . . . keep me out of it. These guys are serious. I understand the one Boer worked up in Namibia with the SADF; he is a serious fucking dude . . . he won’t give it a thought to kill me – or you . . . They’re not playing here, my sister. These people are mean fucks. Even the boss and Lulu. I hope you’re right and they’ll be put away once you splash this story.”

Ayanda tried to calm him. “We’ll take this slow, Mogolo; you call the shots.”

He relaxed somewhat. “Yeah, that’s right. I call the shots . . . I call the fucking shots. We need to get this right so I can get out of this shit alive.” He stood up, finished his beer and threw some money on the table. “Okay, listen, there’s going to be a meeting. I’ll call you when it’s happening.”

He walked out of the door before Ayanda could say anything else. Now she was back to waiting. Waiting and still no story.

* * *

That evening Ayanda walked into Selly’s after a complicated day. She spotted Kiki and Jabu in a corner booth, grabbed a beer and headed their way.

“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 plastic stuff . . . Then he mentioned he liked women in dresses, especially ones belted at the waist to show their figure. After a few days it was black patent leather pumps with bows and long fingernails painted fire-engine red.” Kiki held out her freshly manicured hand. It looked as if her fingers had been dipped in blood.

“Going a bit kinky now, if you ask me,” Ayanda said, sipping at her beer.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Kiki said. “So he doesn’t have a car.” She raised her hand to stop any protests. “Before you say anything, I’ve changed that rule. The new one is: I can date men without cars, as long as they have a job. Anyway, so I go to his house to collect him and who opens the door? His mother!”

“So? What’s wrong with that?” Jabu asked. “Honestly, you don’t know what you want. You’re so tough on these guys.”

“Oh yeah? You think so?” Kiki asked. “I opened the door and thought I was looking into a mirror – only my reflection was about thirty years older and three or four shades lighter, but everything else? Almost spot-on!”

Jabu started laughing.

“Oh god!” Ayanda said. “He wants to date his mother!”

“Yeah,” Kiki said in a slightly put-out voice. “Laugh all you want. It’s creepy having to kiss a guy good night when you know he’s fantasising about doing it to his mother.”

Ayanda tried to contain herself. “I don’t know why you go on all these dates anyway. Rather just wait; the right guy will come along. Who knows, he might be here right under your nose.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it.” Kiki downed her pink drink, pushing the umbrella to the side to get the bit left at the bottom. She looked up, her bottom lip pushed out in a pout. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I think you’re perfect,” Jabu said with a face that looked slightly too serious. Then he quickly joked, “I’m sure Omar thought so too.”

Ayanda covered her mouth to muffle a giggle.

“Oh, Jabu, you think you’re so funny,” Kiki said, but she couldn’t hide her smile.

Busy with the story, they hadn’t noticed who entered the bar until someone said, “Hi, Ayanda, I thought I might find you here.”

Hearing a gasp from Kiki, Ayanda turned around to look into Sipho’s face. It took her a few seconds to get her bearings. Sipho Dlamini in Selly’s – that was something she never expected to see. “Hey . . . Aren’t you a bit out of your territory?”

“I came looking for you. I heard this was where people like you hung out.”

“People like me?” Ayanda asked.

“I meant journalists,” Sipho answered.

“I thought we agreed on Saturday,” Ayanda said, unable to prevent a tinge of annoyance from slipping in.

“I couldn’t wait until then to see you.”

Suddenly Ayanda realised she was being rude to her friends. “Sorry, guys, this is Sipho Dlamini. These are my friends Jabu Mathebula and Kiki January.”

Sipho took Kiki’s hand and kissed it, much to her delight. “What a lovely friend you have, Ayanda.”

Then he shook Jabu’s hand. “Are you the Jabu Mathebula who writes those fantastic sports articles?”

Jabu couldn’t hide his pride. “Yes, I cover sports for The Joburg Tribune.”

“I’m your biggest fan,” Sipho said.

Ayanda was pleased he was making her friends happy, but somehow it seemed all too smooth for her. Was he being sincere? she wondered. And what was he doing here? Was she never going to have any chance to be alone if she dated him?

“I have to take Ayanda away; I beg your forgiveness,” Sipho said.

Before any of them could say a word, he took Ayanda by the hand and led her out of the door. She was surprised to see his car parked right in front of Selly’s, where parking was notoriously hard to come by. Her car was in a lot five blocks away.

“Where are you taking me?” Ayanda asked as Sipho seated her in the car.

“I saw something lovely I’d like you to see.” He smiled and Ayanda sat back, surprised to realise she was ready to be taken to Mars if that was where he intended to take her. She wondered for a minute if he was using some kind of muti on her. So much about him was so wrong, and yet at that moment everything felt perfect.

He got in and drove effortlessly through the lit city. Ayanda didn’t see the passing scenes – she was mesmerised by Sipho. It was as if everything acquiesced to his whim. The lights were all green. The car silently glided as if it wanted only to please him. She’d never seen anything like it. She was drawn to him, but fear flickered at the back of her mind. If he had all the power, what would she have?

She was surprised when they stopped in front of the towering office building that housed Egoli Investments. Sipho got out and opened her car door, taking her hand and leading her to the glass doors at the front. A watchman jumped to his feet when he saw who it was.

“Good evening, Mr Dlamini.”

The watchman opened the locked doors and they went inside. Sipho led her to the lifts. Inside he inserted a key and hit a button marked R.

When Ayanda stepped out of the lift, she was confused at first. She had expected to be somewhere in the building, but instead she was outside in a garden planted on the roof. It smelled of musty earth with hints of frangipani and rose. It was magical.

“Here, take my hand,” Sipho said, having stepped out of the lift while she still stood in amazement. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll keep you safe.”

Automatically, Ayanda held her hand out to him. She believed every word he’d said. He led her to a wooden bench on a carpet of green grass at the edge of the fenced roof.

“Please sit down.”

Sipho disappeared and immediately reappeared, carrying a small tray with a bottle of champagne and two glasses on it. He set it on a dainty wrought-iron table in front of the bench, poured for them both and handed her a glass.

Then he said, “Look up.”

Ayanda did as directed and saw a velvety black sky full of stars. Up there on the roof she and Sipho were somehow far enough above all the city lights to see stars nearly as clearly as they appeared out in the villages with no electricity. The wide expanse of darkness with the twinkling of a million stars.

“How lovely,” she said. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

“When I saw those stars this evening, they were so beautiful that I thought of you, and of how beautiful you are – both inside and out. That’s a rare find, I can assure you.”

Ayanda wasn’t used to such compliments. She smiled and quickly changed the topic. “Do you come up here often?”

“Sometimes, when I’m troubled. When I’m here, I feel as if all my problems are left down there, fighting among themselves, and I get a bit of a reprieve.”

“Yes, I can imagine it would feel like that,” Ayanda said. “Did you have a bad day then?”

He sighed. “You know, transformation can’t be forced. Sometimes I wonder if this BEE thing is even the right way . . . It’s forcing something, something we’re perhaps not quite ready for.”

For the first time Ayanda felt as if Sipho spoke as himself, not as the image of himself, and she said, “But Egoli Investments is always mentioned as an example of a thriving, successful BEE company.”

He sighed again and shook his head. “Things aren’t always as they seem. I think as a journalist you must know that. Image is such a fake thing; it’s not real at all. I don’t want to be part of some kind of window-dressing. I need all this to be more than that. ”

Ayanda could tell he was deeply troubled. “If you want to talk about it, you don’t have to be afraid that I’ll take it any further . . .”

“I never thought that for one moment, but I’d rather not ruin a beautiful evening with this kind of talk.”

He held up his glass and Ayanda did the same. “Cheers,” he said. “To new beginnings.”

“Yes,” she agreed. Although Ayanda could feel a shift between them, she wasn’t exactly sure what was starting. But somehow she knew it was something important, something good.