It is late, thirty minutes already after knock off time, and Njabulo is getting anxious. Sandy, his News Director’s PA, had been vague when she told him the boss wanted to see him. It is eerily quiet now that everyone else has gone home. Njabulo is hungry, tired, and becoming worried, with questions swirling around in his head. Then the door to his boss’s office opens and NUZ FM News Director, David Ndlovu, walks out with his laptop bag.

“Njabulo, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Walk with me; I’ll drop you off at the taxi rank,” says David, as he locks the door behind him and they head down the passage.

“We have a bit of a crisis here, Njabulo. The reporter covering hard news has suddenly quit,” David continues, as he locks the main entrance to the office building. “You might have noticed that we have been running only what you compiled and nothing else.” He motions Njabulo to take his laptop bag as they get into his car.

“Yes, Sir, I did. I mean, I saw that,” prickles of anticipation now rising in him.

“I told you already, stop with this ‘sir’ nonsense. Just call me David.”

Njabulo has his own bag and now David’s bag too. He sits cramped under the load in the passenger seat of his boss’s BMW coupe. But all he can think is: Is my big break coming?

“You can put the bags in the back seat. The front button on your left moves the seat back; just push it in the direction you desire,” David says as he signs out of the office complex, and the security guard raises the boom gate to let them out.

“So Njabulo, as we speak, you are the only journalist NUZ FM has. You will be my saviour and do everything. I am impressed with your eye for news in sports and entertainment. You get the idea of what I want. But now you have to do the hard news as well. It is the easiest part of reporting. Simple really: just use the ‘w’s’ you learned about in school. Your who, what, where, why, and not forgetting how,” he says, all the while weaving in and out of the winter afternoon traffic. In no time they are at the taxi rank.

“This is your chance, Njabulo. NUZ FM has been a springboard to many careers. Ideally I would have loved to give you a month under mentorship to get used to your new responsibilities, but what can we do?” The interior lights of the BMW reflect on Ndlovu’s shiny bald head.

“I will do my best, Mr Ndlovu. You can count on me,” says Njabulo, taking his bag from the backseat while holding back a gleeful smile.

“You will need at least two local stories to lead tomorrow’s ten o’clock morning bulletin. We already have one story. The office of the Mayor is sending a press release that you must manipulate to our format. What I need from you is one other story. Go to the police station nearest your section, find a contact. Surely they will have something to–” A car behind them hoots, stopping David mid-sentence.

They are holding up traffic. “I am counting on you, Njabulo. I have absolute faith in you.” David puts the car into first gear, apologises with a wave to the driver of the car they held up, weaves back into the traffic and disappears so swiftly it seems like one motion.

On the taxi taking him home, Njabulo calls his friend Andile who is a constable at the Police Station in his neighbourhood. His phone is off. So Njabulo types and sends:

Need number for comms officer at ur station asap.

He gets home, changes and eats. He is excited when he hears the incoming message tone on his phone, sure that it is Andile sending him the contact details he needs. But it turns out to be David Ndlovu piling on the pressure.

Did you get anything from the Police Station?

I am counting on you.

Njabulo replies:

I am working on it.

He decides to walk off the pressure he feels building up in him. At the spaza shop down the road he chews the fat with the owner, Dalisu. They talk about upcoming soccer games and girls, then move on to his search for local news.

“If you are really serious about a local story, you need to do a report on how these wholesalers are bleeding us dry. We can hardly make a cent with these food price increases. You can also do a piece about how the gogos on pension are not paying me back when they get their pension grants,” says Dalisu.

They are laughing when a van passes at speed, blaring out an indecipherable announcement through a loudspeaker and scattering flyers out of the windows.

“What’s this about?” Njabulo wonders out loud, picking up a flyer.

“Let me see,” says Dalisu while serving a customer. He squints at the text and says, “Oh, that again. It’s a meeting called by the new councillor. It’s to tell us about a new development in the area or something.”

Njabulo can’t help but admire Dalisu’s multi-tasking skills because he answers while giving change and bread to the customer and goes onto serve another while talking to Njabulo.

“We must go and hear what he says, Dalisu.”

“You go, Njabs. Maybe you will get the story you want so bad. Count me out; I’ve had enough of politicians and their promises. Besides, my busiest hour has started. This money won’t make itself.”

Njabulo makes his way to the meeting, notebook and pen in hand. He finds the community hall packed, so much so that there are no seats available. He forces his way nearer the front and leans against the wall near the podium, eavesdropping on contrasting views whispered.

“These crooks are taking us for a ride again,” from a group of young men.

“Just one month in and something is happening. I’m glad I gave him my vote,” from a grey-bearded mouth.

“True, the last councillor did nothing for us but let’s give this one a chance,” whispers a thirty-something female teacher to her sceptical friend.

Njabulo surveys the whole gathering when a tinge of excitement courses through the crowd. Thrice, a kind of Jack-of-all-trades of the neighbourhood, walks up to the microphone and hushes the crowd. Part time preacher, motivational speaker, soccer coach, business man, youth leader, one time convict and full time fabulist – name it, Thrice is it.

“Wonderful people of Ward 84, thank you all for being here tonight. Without taking too much of your time, help me in welcoming our honourable Councillor Jonas Mlaba to the podium. He brings wonderful news to our Ward. Wonderful news,” Thrice says.

Njabulo had never seen the new councillor before, and what steps up to the podium is a short, fatherly man of about sixty years of age, hair greying above the temples. He is dressed in casual chinos, a cheap checked shirt and inexpensive shoes. His mannerisms are unassuming. Njabulo scribbles all these observations in his notebook.

“People of Ward 84, I will not be long. I know most of you are coming from work; so am I. I will not take up too much of your time,” says the Councillor in a soft, soothing voice. “Your vote has put me in the position of representing you. The mandate that Ward 84 gave me was that you want development and progress. I have taken this memo to the powers that be and fought with all my might to see that your wishes are fulfilled.”

It is dead quiet in the hall; Mlaba has everyone’s attention. Njabulo looks at the crowd and sees faces full of anticipation.

“Today I stand before you to announce that, as of tomorrow…” Mlaba pauses, lets the mood build for a second more. “Today, tonight, I stand before you Ward 84, and tell you that tomorrow we start work on a multimillion rand community centre that will serve this community. And it will be built by this community, to help this community rise!”

The crowd erupts – hands clap, men whistle, women are heard ululating. Not much that Councillor Mlaba says further is heard in this delirium. He understands the effect of his announcement so he keeps it short.

“Those who want jobs must contact Thrice,” he says, as he leaves the podium.

Immediately Njabulo thinks of his cousin, Thabo, a bricklayer who has been out of work for months.

People mob the Councillor and shake his hand as his bodyguards usher him out the side door, right past Njabulo, who seizes his chance.

“Sir, Sir, Councillor Mlaba. Njabulo Msane here, NUZ FM news. Just a moment of your time please?”

The short man peers around the bulky frames of his bodyguards.

“Meet me on site tomorrow, at nine in the morning. We can chat,” he says, handing Njabulo his card.

Well-pleased, Njabulo is on his way home when he gets a call from his constable friend, Andile.

“Yes, we have stories for you. I will send you the number of our communications officer and her email.”

Njabulo can’t hide his excitement. He calls the communications officer and gives her his email address. By the time he gets home the stories are already on his inbox.

He messages David:

Got stories boss.

David calls back immediately. “Brief me,” he says.

“I have two stories ready to go, from the communications officer at the police station. One is about wanted criminals and it comes complete with identikits. The other is a warning to the community about a spike in burglaries and how to prevent them. I have a third story still developing about a new multi-million rand community centre for our ward.”

“Very good Njabulo. We can post them on the website as well, to get the community involved. In the morning you need to get in early, manage your time well, polish the two stories, request the car. By eight you must be on the way to your interview. Great work, Njabulo.”

***

Tell us what you think: Does the new Councillor seem like an honest, politician?