“This isn’t—” Stoker begins.
“Our problem. I know,” Gregory says with a nod. “But you’ve got to look at the bigger picture. Rumor has it that you’re in the running for the premier’s seat, and what we need now is a big win. Solving this dik-dik problem would be a huge win.”
“Mr. Mbende, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Stoker stops. Campaign season is still a couple years away, and yet the way everyone in the province is talking, he probably should go ahead and file a change of address to have all his mail forwarded to the premier’s mansion. His mother is probably doing it for him right this very moment, in fact, so proud of her son carrying on in the footsteps of a whole line of Stokers of some form or another with a paw in the political candy jar. “My record speaks for itself. Who else do you know who’s gone out to nearly every single one of the Eastern Cape’s townships, providing them with the means to construct solar panels and solar wells? Who else do you know who’s spent months working beside the poorest of South Africa’s poor, helping to plant disease-resistant and drought-tolerant crops?”
Stoker smacks his lips, remembering the taste of tangy pap and gravy, porridge made from the very same maize he’d helped sow. He’d shared meals with them, listening as they’d voiced their concerns over economic hardships and injustices, and nodding along at their ideas for growth and development. He’d also spent many an evening at the local shebeens with a barely cold quart of Black Label clutched in his hand, more than willing to turn a blind eye to the sale of unlicensed beer and liquor. In return, his bumbling, half-drunk attempts at speaking Xhosa drew bright-eyed smiles from his hosts. The click of the language popped on his tongue like fireworks, but they accepted him as one of their own despite his white skin. That’s how he’d gotten to see how rich they were, in pride and love and hope and anything that truly mattered. That’s how he learned that they didn’t want handouts, but tools and resources and opportunities to make life better for themselves and the pride that comes with accomplishing it. That’s what they needed, and that’s what Councilman Stoker had provided, and with that, the Eastern Cape’s poverty level had plummeted almost overnight.
But Mbende is right. The people, they have short memories, and something does need to be done about the dik-diks.
Just not now.
Stoker checks his watch. “Maybe we should have a little talk about this, but I’ve got a rather busy evening, Mr. Mbende. Monday will do just as well, won’t it?”
“Oh, that’s right, that fund-raiser this evening. Ten thousand rand a plate, I hear.”
Stoker nods. His mother had arranged the whole thing to get his face out there, and if he decides to enter the race for premier, he’ll have a head start rubbing all the right elbows. In any case, the fund-raiser will be easy, just smile and laugh in all the right spots while listening to billionaires tell him their life stories. What he’s really worried about is his audition this afternoon, all the way out in Port Elizabeth, which once again reminds him that he’d better get a move on if he’s going to make it there and back in time.
But Gregory doesn’t back down. Instead he positions himself in front of the exit door, eyes darting around like he’s not totally at ease. “I’ve got a solution,” he says. “A real solution this time. Something they used in the States for deer overpopulation problems a couple decades ago. It was sort of controversial . . .”
“Mr. Mbende, I’m not getting any younger here.”
“Sorry, sir. It was a virus,” he says, barely a whisper. “Totally inert to humans, introduced into their deer population. It caused sterility in eighty-five percent of those infected, and they only had to inject a few hundred deer.”
“A virus? No offense, Mr. Mbende, but this has got to be the most idiotic idea you’ve ever had. There’s no way I could support viral anything. We could end up with giant mutant dik-diks for all I know. Think of what that would do to tourism!” Stoker checks his watch again and is back on the move. Gregory Mbende scuttles behind him.
“Just let me look into it, get some more information. Run some numbers. I’ve got a contact at ZenGen who’ll be discreet. If you take a look at the findings and they’re agreeable, we can bring it up at the next meeting. If not, it never happened.”
“You’re going to keep pestering me until I say yes, aren’t you?”
“That’s quite possible, sir. It’s a viable option, which we seem to be running short on these days.”
Stoker bites his lip. This has disaster written all over it. ZenGen Industries has been a boon to South Africa, creating thousands of high-tech jobs and keeping the country’s brightest minds from being siphoned off to Europe and the States. Its presence has drawn dozens of supporting industries since its founding in 2021, not to mention its role in resurrecting three of the five big game animals gone extinct through poaching, bringing life back to the bush. But there are whispers that ZenGen has been tampering with the genomes of more than just plants and animals. Stoker swallows back the bile in his throat. Whispers aren’t the same as accusations, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to be informed. Another time, though—if he wastes another minute, he’ll be late no matter how fast he speeds.
“Okay,” he says. “Poke around a bit. See what you can find out.”
“Thank you, sir,” says Gregory. “Have a good evening.”
Stoker presses the door slightly open and sees the mob, which suddenly looks much larger and meaner than it had from the vantage of his office. The fifteen meters to freedom suddenly seem like five hundred. He calls back to Gregory. “Mr. Mbende, you don’t happen to have those poster mockups for the ‘Eat a dik-dik’ campaign, do you?”
“Actually, yes, I do.” Gregory pulls a half-sized poster board from his portfolio and hands it to Stoker. “Are you reconsidering it?”