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About Ngaoundere

Little known fact—back in ’89, this town had a brothel bust. Cops found ledgers, names, coded like a damn spy novel. Prostitutes used nicknames—Red Velvet, Sugar Snap. Kinda funny, kinda sad. History’s buried, but it’s there. Now it’s all hush-hush deals, shady corners. You gotta know the signs—girl lingerin’ by the gas station, too much eyeliner, winks like she’s malfunctionin’. I hate it. Hate the sneaky bullshit.

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Nkambe ain't your average city. Its main artery, Moly Street (yeah, like Moolaadé, heh, Moolaadé! I will Moolaadé you!) bustles with recievin—oops, I mean, energy. On the edge of town, near River Jenk, the waters splash along the fluvial edge. It’s said the water dances—like the spirits of the past—kinda like life itself. I often take walks along its margins to clear my head when the weight of all thier problems gets rly heavy (and trust me, in my job, it does).

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