Can He be the One?. Lauri Kubuitsile

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.

      2

      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