Jabulani's Mission

Jabulani was nervous. It was the night before what could possibly be the beginning to his career as a journalist. All he had to to was pitch his idea, he thought as he skimmed through previous publications of the tabloid he was about to approach. His article was already written. All he had to do was pitch it, and deliver the product on the spot. Nerves, he knew, were necessary. Without nerves, confidence would probably overflow right into arrogance - and nobody needed another arrogant journalist. His story was sound, he thought, and it was right up the publication's alley.

Weeks earlier, while hibernating at home, he caught wind of news that one of the local teachers at a nearby school was employing archaic modes of discipline, often extreme and unnecessary, as well as 'cooking' year-end marks based on bias. Naturally, his curiosity piqued, he followed up on the allegations and did some investigating. To his amazement, he found that the teacher in question had just started teaching five years ago, and it seemed strange that someone so young could be so cold. He had to find out more about her, and so he staged a scenario which would - should chance favor him - see him acquainted with the young educator. He followed her for a day, making certain that she remained oblivious to the intrusion. She wasn't very tentative, he noted, as he slipped up several times and their two paths crossed more than once. He knew he had to act soon, and lo and behold - she enters the bank and he instinctively follows. He stood behind her in the cue, not knowing what he would do when his turn came to see a teller.

Although he knew more about the kind of person she was behind the scene than he would reveal, he could not help but marvel at her.She was beautiful. Her dredlocked hair was neatly plaited, her clothes - visibly new - were neatly ironed. Her handwriting was perfect too, he remarked to himself, spying it on the bank slip she was holding in her hand. Perfectly manicured fingernails. Red lipstick. Lightly applied make-up. Beautiful, he thought. He sensed feelings creeping up, and quickly reminded himself that he was on a mission.
"I really like your nails," he blurted out before he could stop himself. She turned back and smiled. She had a gold tooth, and a nose-ring. His heart almost stopped when she spoke back.
"Thank you," she said. "I really like your t-shirt."
"Thank you," he stammered. It took him by surprise that she had noticed. He had expected his imposition on her space to be treated as such, which to his bemusement was not. There were quite a number of people in the cue in front of her, so he decided it was now or never.
"My name's Lucky," he said. "What's your name?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she replied flirtatiously. This made him feel somewhat uncomfortable. He, Jabulani, was in a relationship. However, in that instant, he knew that Lucky wasn't. Lucky had just been born, as it were; a new person entirely. He decided to improvise.
"I would, actually. I mean, it's a long cue. I imagine it would go by a lot quicker if there was somebody to while the minutes away with. You seem to be an interesting person, I must say. You dress really well yourself, and allow me, but you smell really incredible." His words were stunning, he felt. He was certainly stunned. He had no idea what had come over him; was it lust, or was he really that good a journalist, he thought as she blushed. She opened up from that moment on.
"You're cute," she said. Success, he thought.
"I'm portia."
"And I'm Lucky to have met you, Portia," he said before he could stop himself. She laughed. He knew it was cheesey, but cheesey always worked when delivered in good spirit. "So what is it that you do when you're not banking, Miss Portia?"
"Well, for one thing, I don't assume that people aren't married," she jibed, remarking on how he had called her 'Miss'.
"I'm sorry, I saw no ring. If you are, you're husband must be pretty liberal - in which case, you're a lucky woman."
"You're very observant. What do you do for a living?" she asked, notably intrigued by Jabulani's polite mannerism. He knew that it was almost unheard of to meet a young black male who wasn't trying too hard to get laid. Jabulani had spent a great deal of his time at varsity observing female behavior, and he had discovered first hand that females generally only wished to be listened to earnestly, without lust or expectations. This understanding brought him closer not only to his partner, but to all his female companions. It was simple, all he had to do was pay attention and be sincerely polite. And stick to his story.
"Well, to be brutally honest, I'm a freelance Information Analyst. My job is pretty much all about paying attention to detail. Thanks for asking. What is it that you do, if I may?" he ventured.
"Oh, I'm a teacher. I teach English First Additional at the local school." she said. He smiled. He knew he had the right person. It was almost her turn to see a cashier, there was only one person left in the cue in front of her. He had to act quicker.
"I like milkshakes," he said. "Do you maybe want to go for a milkshake after this? Banking always makes me thirsty. It must be something in the air. I think it's contagious, I don't know. Are you thirsty?" He blushed, noting the innuendo in his sentence. She laughed, noticing this too.
"Well, no, I'm not thirsty. But I would sincerely like to go for a milkshake with you. Shall we exchange numbers?" she asked.
"Erm, sure," she noticed the hesitation, and he had to say something quickly to justify it. "Full transparency, I'm a shitty communicator. I can sit on numbers for a long time before actually using them. I don't know, I guess I'm a bit of a day-dreamer; get lost in fantasies a lot. So I prefer, rather, to do things when the opportunity arises. Like, right now. I know, I'm a stranger, essentially. But I'm a firm believer in seizing the day; living for the moment. I don't mind exchanging numbers, in fact, I would love to. Can we exchange over a milkshake? My treat. I'm really dehydrated, and there's a KFC right around the corner. They make a mean strawberry milkshake."

She laughed. How could she say no to such a sincere request, and so she agreed. Soon, they were having milkshakes and laughing like old friends. Jabulani, with the exception of his name, maintained full transparency. He told her stories of how he analyses information and writes up reports, likening his craft to journalism. In that respect, he thought, he told her exactly what it is that he does for a living. She was charmed. They sat for hours that first day, and hours more over the course of the next couple of days.

A week later, she invited him to his place to spend the night. He could not refuse, and so he called his girlfriend Belinda before leaving to explain the situation. The phone rang. She answered.
"Hey, Bae!" she said excitedly.
"Hellow! How are you doing?" he asked.
"Same old. I'm here at home being bored. Oh, wait, I had that job interview callback today! I guess I have a job; big whoop." She was downplaying it, Jabulani could tell, and he would not have it.
"Oh my, Belinda! That's fantastic, dude! Right on! Sincerely . . . My boo gots a job!" He cheered.
"Shut up," she laughed. "Enough about me. How are you doing?"
"Well, pretty well. Remember that article on the rogue teacher I was telling you about? Well, I have enough to go to print. But I'm faced with a bit of a moral question," he said.
"Okay, lay it on me," she replied.
"Well, she invited me over to her place and I think she expects to have sex with me. It's pretty deep. I think I'm going to tell her I'm gay, and only looking for friendship. But that would be a lie. I don't know. She's every bit what the stories say, I've found. She's quite strict, even about what I wear when we hang. She's quite really bossy. I've spoken to some of the pupils who laid claims against her, and their stories check out with what she told me. Perhaps I should just come clean. I can live with her not liking me. Or, perhaps, I can go forth, let her fall in love with me, and guide her along the path of becoming a nicer person; but that would constitute mixing business with pleasure. Being a journalist sucks. It's such a moral dilema of a lifestyle all the time. I won't lie, though, I have been enjoying spending time with her. She's not a bad person; she's just a bully. Bullies need love too, right?"
"Right," Belinda said.
"Wait, did you just agree with me?"
"Yeah. You're right. And this is your job. What you do is entirely up to you, my love. Sleep with her, don't, I still love you and only you. Fall in love with her, if you must. Bring her home, and I'll certainly fall in love with her too. You know I love everyone you love. It's our thing. I don't know, I've never been in this kind of relationship before."
"Neither have I," he said, sighing. "You're trippy awesome, dude. Thanks. I think I'm just going to have to level with her. It's a relationship based on a lie. I mean, I didn't even give her my real name."
"Do what you must, my love. Hey, I'm booking you a ticket to come see me this weekend. Is that all right with you?"
"You mean you haven't booked one already? I'm hurt!" he joked.
"Of course I have," she said. "Sending you details as soon as you hang up."
"Blimey, thanks! I can't wait. I love you so much!"
"I love you too."

Jabulani hung up. He knew what he had to do next: break up with Portia. First, he had to write up his article and file it. He decided he had enough information to go on, and that the next night would be a fiery conclusion to a great week of journaling.

Portia didn't take the news too well. She smacked him across the face and threatened him with legal action should he go to print. He politely informed her that what she was doing to those children was the real crime, and that cops would be knocking on her door by the end of the week. Jabulani knew that she knew people in the neighbourhood who would then try to intimidate him, and so he left early the next morning and closed the chapter behind him.

The morning of the pitch came, and went by. He got paid cash, per word, and was now sitting on a hefty bank balance. Payday in time to go see his love and share his loot from his first honest week's work as a freelance journalist.