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My office telephone rings early on my second day working at the newspaper.
Surprisingly enough, because this hasn’t happened to me before, it is reception informing me of a young woman who wants to speak to a journalist. I set aside my cup of coffee, which is not only half full, but also ice cold by now, put down my glasses and head out to hear her story.
A very nervous woman greets me. We sat down and I use my cliché introduction question to start an interview.
“So tell me what happened,” I said objectively. As soon as she started, my heart grew warmer as her story sank into my soul. Her eyes teared up as she explained that her only means of transport had been stolen just a day or two ago.
Her tender voice stuttered as she said that she now had to rely on her husband to get to work. And, although he didn’t seem to mind, she felt utterly frustrated that two people had to share transport, while another (the carjacker) enjoyed the privileges of the result of her hard work. “This is what I studied so hard for,” I thought to myself. The thrill of chasing the truth behind a story and the exhilaration of bringing justice to the everyday struggles of a small town’s people.
I leaned towards her, to ensure her that I would do everything I could to let her story be known and investigated. Except, when I got back to my desk and picked up my cold coffee, reality hit me once again.
With four half-written stories, none with attached photos, and the non-stop ringing of my telephone, the odds of giving extreme attention to her story became very slim. But, after refilling the cold coffee cup, my heart felt re-invigorated, and sure enough the story was written with the great devotion it deserves. “This is what I live for,” I said once again.
Serving the people of Randfontein, watching out for criminal offenders, lending an ear when something tragic has happened, and being excited to hear about a successful fundraiser or charity event.
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