The radio station sat above a row of hardware shops, its sign half‑peeled and flapping in the hot breeze.
Daniel climbed the narrow stairs two at a time, dodging a boy carrying a crate of light bulbs. At the top, the landing smelled of dust, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of old electronics.
Inside Studio Two, the fan rattled as if it might shake loose from the ceiling. The mixing desk was older than Daniel, its paint worn to bare metal around the most used knobs. A single red light glowed above the mic.
"Three minutes," the producer called through the glass. "News at eight. Keep it tight. No poetry."
Daniel adjusted his headphones and scanned the handwritten bulletin in front of him. Official script on the left, his own notes scribbled in the margins on the right.
The clock on the wall ticked louder as the top of the hour approached. Down below, the street noise rose and fell: motorbikes, vendors, someone arguing about the price of a television.
The producer's voice crackled in his headphones.
"Ten seconds. You read the bulletin as written, then you do your little 'community voices' bit. No names. The director is nervous. There were calls from the capital yesterday."
Daniel swallowed a sigh. "Copy," he said.
The red light flared brighter.
"Good morning, Nambara," he said into the microphone. His voice slipped into the familiar rhythm, the one people in town recognized. "This is Radio Kouta with your eight o'clock news." He read the headlines. The president's meeting with the mining company. A new road project in the south. A football victory in the capital. Finally, a line about a "minor disturbance" near Cazanda.
His throat tightened around the word "minor."
He finished the official paragraph, then paused, letting a few seconds of silence stretch. The producer's hand hovered over the fader, ready to cut if needed.
Daniel leaned slightly closer to the mic.
"Listeners in Cazanda and along the highway are telling us more," he said. "They report that at least several young men were brought to the district hospital this morning with gunshot wounds after a protest near the mine gate. We are working to confirm numbers with medical staff, but we know families are already gathering there, worried and grieving."
The producer winced behind the glass but didn't cut him off.
"If you are on the road," Daniel continued, keeping his tone calm, "avoid the stretch between Kilometer Four and the old baobab until the situation cools. Stay safe. Keep your children close. We will update you as we learn more."
He moved on to community announcements. A lost goat. A call for volunteers to help at the health center. A funeral notice from a nearby town, no cause given.
When the segment ended, the red light died. Music filled the headphones, a high‑life guitar line masking the sudden emptiness of the room.
The producer pushed the door open.
"You're going to get us shut down," she said, not angrily, just stating a fact.
Daniel took off his headphones. "People are already listening on their phones, on foreign stations, on WatsAp voice notes. If we pretend nothing is happening, they will stop trusting us."
"They'll stop trusting us when we're off air," she replied. "There were men from the prefect's office here yesterday. They asked for recordings."
"Did you give them?"
She looked at him for a beat too long.
"I gave them last week's bulletin," she said. "The safe one. This week, you don't give me much to work with."
He opened his mouth to answer, but the station director appeared in the doorway. Shirt tucked too tightly into his trousers, tie crooked, worry lines etched deep.
"Daniel. My office. Now."
The office was barely larger than the studio, walls covered with fading posters of long‑finished advertising campaigns and a yellowing license certificate from the national media authority.
The director closed the door behind them.
"You are a good journalist," he said without sitting. "You have a nose for what matters. People trust you."
Daniel waited. There was always a "but."
"But you are not in the capital," the director continued. "You are in Kouta. And Kouta is small. When the governor calls, I cannot pretend your voice is someone else's."
"What did he say?" Daniel asked.
"That he heard your report about 'gunshot wounds' and 'grieving families'," the director replied. "That such language 'inflames tensions.' That there is a law against broadcasting false information in a time of security operations."
"Is it false?" Daniel said.
The director rubbed his eyes. "You know how this works. If the ministry has not confirmed, it is 'unverified rumor.'"
"I was at the hospital yesterday," Daniel said. "I saw the wounded from last week's skirmish. I talked to their mothers. Today will be worse."
The director finally sat, the chair creaking.
"I am not asking you to lie," he said. "I am asking you to survive. To keep this station alive so that, maybe, we can still say something when it really matters."
"And this doesn't matter?"
The director's jaw clenched. "Everything matters. That is the problem."
A burst of static cut through from the other room, followed by a jingle. The sound proofing here was more idea than reality.
The director tapped the desk.
"No more numbers," he said. "No more pointing at the army or the rebels by name. Say 'clashes.' Say 'incidents.' Say 'we have reports' and then shut up. At least for now."
Daniel leaned back. He thought of the mothers outside the hospital gate, the boys carrying their brothers on makeshift stretchers, the way the town's WhatsApp groups and social media handles were already crackling with shaky videos and angry voice notes.
"If we don't say it," he said, "someone else will. And they might not care if it's true or not."
The director looked at him with tired eyes.
"Someone else," he said, "does not have their name on the station license. Someone else does not have two children at home and a mortgage on this building."
Silence settled between them.
Finally, the director sighed. "Keep your 'community voices' segment," he said. "But record it first. No more live improv. I want to hear anything sensitive before it goes out. Understood?"
Daniel nodded. "Understood."
Back in the corridor, the heat pressed in. The phones at the small reception desk were already blinking.
"Calls from Cazanda," the receptionist said. "They want to talk. Some are angry. Some are crying."
"Tell them we're listening," Daniel said. "Tell them we will call back."
He picked up his recorder and stepped out onto the balcony. From here, he could see the main road. A line of trucks inching toward the mines, a military pickup parked at the junction, three soldiers leaning on it, rifles slung, watching the flow of people.
He pressed the red button on the recorder.
"This is Daniel from Radio Kouta," he said softly. "Date: 14th of Dry Season, Year 17 of the Republic. Location: Kouta town, overlooking Highway Three. I am documenting what we can say on air and what we cannot."
He described the trucks, the soldiers, the murmurs in the market below about gunfire near Zangara. He spoke of the hospital, of families gathering, of the smell of fear that clung to conversations.
He stopped, rewound, listened. A private record, for now.
A motorbike pulled up in front of the building. A young man jumped off, helmet hanging from one hand, a folded paper in the other. He bounded up the stairs and appeared in the doorway, breathing hard.
"Are you Daniel?" he asked.
"Yes."
The young man thrust the paper at him. "From my cousin at the hospital," he said. "He said to bring it to the radio. Names of the dead. They don't want them to disappear."
Daniel unfolded the paper. Four names, written in hurried pen. Ages: 16, 19, 22, 24. All from villages along the highway.
He looked at the list, then at the studio door, then back to the list.
"Thank you," he said.
"Will you read them?" the young man asked.
Daniel hesitated. The director's warning still echoed in his ears.
"On air?" the young man pressed.
Daniel folded the paper carefully, as if the names might tear.
"Maybe not today," he said. "But they will not be forgotten."
The young man's shoulders sagged slightly, but he nodded.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, burning the mist off the fields. Inside, Daniel pinned the list of names to the cork board above his desk, where song requests and lost‑goat notices usually went.
Four names. Four lives.
He picked up his recorder again.
"Addendum," he said into the mic. "First confirmed dead from the Zangara protest. Their names are…"
He spoke each name slowly, clearly, letting the syllables fill the small room.
Not broadcast. Not yet.
Not now.