Chapter 19 - Chapter 18

# Chapter 18
AYANDA

I stop typing on my laptop when there's a soft knock behind me. Writing this weekly column about Vusi is getting more and more difficult by the day. How do I stay impartial when I'm anything but? How do I stick to simple facts and keep my own emotions from bleeding through the sentences on the screen?

Shutting the laptop, I roll my chair around. Babalwa looks like the cat that got the cream, dressed to the nines in a trouser suit and a pair of rimmed glasses that are for fashion. Babalwa had laser eye surgery last year.

"You going on a date?"

"In a business suit?" Her red lipstick contrasts her pearly white teeth when she smiles. She pats her tied-back hair to ensure no strands have defied gravity yet. "Do I look presentable?"

"Presentable!" I gesture to her clothes. "You look like you're running for president. What's the occasion?"

She cackles like the question is the funniest thing all year. "Yoh, Ayanda. I'm sure you live under a rock."

"We established that a long time ago," I mumble, reaching for my coffee cup only to find it empty. Story of my life.

"I'm serious, Ayanda. You're covering the most coveted story around here, but you're still clueless."

"So?" I tip my cup upside down. Not even a single drop. "Are you going to enlighten me?" I place the cup back down and offer her my best fake "I'm interested" face. I'm definitely not curious.

"Derek Richard Jantjies hangs in Gaborone today — the first of the corridor men they handed over. Guess who's been assigned to cover it as press?"

"I hate when they do that," I mutter.

"Do what?" she asks.