Mantwa pressed the last number, and then lifted the receiver to her ear, listening for the first buzz before extending it toward Kgole with a steady hand.
The line trilled on the other end, a muted rhythm against the thick silence of the basement. It rang once, twice, a third time�still nothing.
In a cramped office across town, Sergeant Mkhize stared at the glowing screen of his mobile, lips pursed. The display showed no name, no number�just the sterile word Private. He didn�t like calls like that - Never had. They reeked of trouble, of questions he�d rather not answer.
So he let it ring, eyes narrowing as his thumb hovered above the green button, weighing caution against curiosity.
Eventually, curiosity won. Mkhize slid his thumb across the screen and lifted the phone to his ear�but said nothing, only silence, measured and deliberate, waiting for the caller to make the first move.
�Hello, Sergeant.�
Kgole�s voice broke through, calm but edged with familiarity. He knew Mkhize�s aversion to private numbers, knew the silence wasn�t hesitation�it was caution.
�It�s Kgole,� he added, steady and reassuring, a quiet signal that it was safe to speak.
�Captain..!� The name burst from Mkhize like a breath he hadn�t realized he�d been holding. �We�ve been worried sick about you.� The relief in his tone was unmistakable, a weight sliding off his shoulders in that single exhale. �Alive and kicking,� Kgole said, letting a thin thread of humor slip into the gravity of the moment. Then, without pause, he asked the question that mattered.
�Is Lieutenant Mazibuko at the station?�
�No, sir,� Mkhize replied without missing a beat�the reflex of a man who had been tracking Mazibuko�s every move.
�He didn�t turn up for work today,� Mkhize continued. �The last time I saw him was yesterday�right after you went to see him.�
Kgole blinked, the words landing heavier than expected. Yesterday? For a moment, it felt wrong, almost absurd. In his mind, that day had stretched into something far longer�