and whistles.
Itâs been known, however, that the men chew on a plant called kar to suppress their appetite on these hunting trips. Itâs a succulent, only found in their area, and rich in vitamins and minerals. Apparently it mimics the effect that glucose has on the brain cells, telling people their stomachs are full. âIt has a compound in it called P57,â Jeremy says. âIt acts on the hypothalamus, the part of the brain that influences appetite.â
Thereâs a grove of silver birches between us and the river. Through the trees we can hear faint music from the buskers. Jeremy says: âSo somebody at Zonac hears about this plant and five years ago they slapped a licence on it and got a patent to flog it in America.â
âWhy?â
âAs an appetite suppressant. Get the irony! All those fat people, all those waddling barrage balloons â theyâre addicted to eating. Junk foodâs got stuff in it that makes them want more and more. And suddenly, along comes a solution, a hunger-busting quick fix. A couple of capsules a day ⦠the miracle cure. Just imagine how it sold! Zonacâs share price went through the roof.â With his fork, he offers me the last mouthful of cake. I shake my head and he pops it in his mouth. âIt was only then that the Kikanda got wind of what was happening. They challenged Zonac, who said sorry, we thought you were extinct. The Kikanda replied that they werenât extinct, they were very much alive. They said that kar grows on their ancestral land, it belongs to them, and they were going to hire a shit-hot lawyer from Johannesburg to sue Zonac to kingdom come for bio-piracy. And thatâs where I came in.â
âYou acted for Zonac.â
Jeremy nods.
âAgainst vulnerable, poverty-stricken, unique, endangered people who had absolutely nothing.â
âYep.â
He dabs at the crumbs on the plate. I glare at him as he sucks his finger.
âYouâre such a shit.â My face heats up. I feel strangely, exhilaratingly intimate with him. âTalk about David and bloody Goliath. I always suspected you did something like that but hoped I was wrong. Go on, tell me you were just doing your job.â
âProgress always has casualties,â Jeremy says blandly, leaning back in his chair. âFrom lab rats upwards. Saving lives means losing lives.â
âThatâs bollocks. Youâre not saving lives, youâre peddling stuff to stupid people who eat too much.â
âThing is, Petra my love, the Kikanda are doomed anyway. Their way of lifeâs doomed.â He lights a cigarette. âIf itâs not one thing itâs another. The Chinese are swarming over the place plundering the minerals, the poachers are slaughtering the wildlife, the Arab sheikhs are setting fire to the migration routes and nicking the land for hunting, everyoneâs bribing everyone, the governmentâs riddled with corruption, the whole bloody areaâs up for grabs.â
Somewhere, through the trees, drummers start tum-tum-tumming with a jungle beat. I feel profoundly depressed. âThat doesnât excuse you.â
âNo, it doesnât. Thatâs why I left my job.â
âWhat?â
So he tells me.
It wasnât a Road to Damascus moment. âIt happened when I was shaving,â Jeremy says. âJust a normal morning, couldnât be more normal.â He raises his eyebrows. âBut donât you find that huge things can happen in the most humdrum moment?â
I nod. The wind stirs my paper napkin.
âBy the time Iâd finished shaving the lawyer in me had vanished, just like that,â he says.
âSo what did you do?â
âDidnât go into work. Told them to go to hell.â
I stare at him.
âI had some money saved up â quite a lot, over the years, weâd never bought a house or anything sensible like that, and Iâd been paid
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