The phone rings for a while. As he waits, in Njabulo’s mind the carnage of the building falling, and then them pulling injured workers from the rubble replays over and over. Broken bones, blood, and then the proclamations of the calm carpenter from Malawi, complaining through cigarette smoke.

Njabulo is determined now: he wants to know what Councillor Mlaba is doing about all of this.

“Councillor Mlaba’s office. How may I help you?” answers a female voice, when the line is picked up.

“Hello, Njabulo Msane here from NUZ FM. May I speak to Councillor Mlaba please?” He can hear that his own voice is still tinged with adrenaline.

“Mr Msane, Councillor Mlaba is not in at the moment. Can I take a message?”

“I need to speak to him urgently. What time will he be in?”

“You can try after lunch. Make it after two because the Councillor usually takes long lunches.”

“No that won’t do, this is urgent. How can he be out to lunch during a crisis? Do you have another cell number I can contact him on? The number on his card is not going through.”

“Sir, I don’t have another number. Like I said, try him after lunch.” Her tone is unfailingly polite.

“Are you serious? Do you know how important this is? It is a matter of life and death. People’s lives are in danger.”

“Sir, please calm down.”

“Lady, don’t tell me to calm down. If you knew what this is about you would not tell me what you are telling me.”

“Sir, what is this in connection with?”

“Lady, I just saw a building collapse at the site where the new community centre at Ward 84 is being built! How can the Councillor go AWOL during a crisis? Where is he?”

“What I can tell you is that he came in here about an hour ago in a hurry. He was shouting on the phone, very agitated, though I did not hear the exact words of the conversation. He stormed out just as quick.”

Njabulo feels anger multiplying inside him but forces himself to calm down. He doesn’t want to unload his frustrations on this girl with a sweet voice, who is just doing her job.

“Mr Msane, are you there? Sir?”

“I am here. What did you say your name was?”

“Joy, Sir. Joy Dlamini.”

Njabulo is quiet again. Calm settles over him, induced in no small part by Joy Dlamini’s voice. It seems like honey has been poured over her words. Njabulo pictures the mouth from which this beautiful voice originates. Trust the wandering mind of a young man to fall for a voice over the phone, even in a crisis, he thinks wryly.

“Sir, what I suggest is that you send the Councillor an email with your concerns. Maybe he is in a meeting.” Then her voice lowers to whisper, “I may have something that could help you. Copy me on that email. I need to tell you something, but not over the phone. I will be in touch after hours.”

Njabulo fires off the email and makes his way to his boss’s office. David is not there.

“He went out to see advertising clients. He will be back at four. He said you need to wrap up the community centre project story, and said to tell you that you are taking too long to finish it. There are also three other stories that you need to work on. I will forward them to you. He also said to call the communications officer for a quote on one of those stories. The others are fine, just re arrange them to our format,” says Sandy, David Ndlovu’s PA.

“Thanks, Sandy,” he says with a small sigh.

“What is wrong? You look tired.”

“It has been a hectic morning, Sandy. I saw a building collapse just a minute after I stepped out from it. People were injured and our rusty car acted as an ambulance.”

“Wow! Shame, sweet boy. I am so sorry. Tricks of your trade.” Her phone rings and she picks up.

Working on the stories that Sandy has forwarded calms Njabulo further. He has finished by the time David returns from meetings. The reporter relays in graphic detail what happened at the community centre construction site. Deep concern sits on David’s face.

“I am worried, Njabulo, that the Councillor cannot be contacted. It could be that he is running away from this, or he is resolving the issue. Either way we cannot air the story until you find out more,” says David.

Njabulo does not want to swallow those words, but then his phone message tone blares out. It is an incoming message from Joy Dlamini, the Councillor’s secretary.

Meet me at Galleria Mall 2B underground

parking. 5:30 p.m. Text me when you get there.

He shows the message to David.

“Take my car. If she wants to spill the beans, it is best not to show up in the company car with the NUZ FM logo on it,” says David. “Record everything she tells you.”

Njabulo takes the BMW keys.

“And Njabulo,” says David looking at him in a fatherly way.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Please be careful.”

***

Tell us what you think: Could Njabulo really be in danger? Is hard news journalism a job with risks?