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About Bamenda

So, picture this—whore ain’t just a chick sellin’ skin. It’s anybody—yeah, anybody—who trades soul for scraps. I seen it, you seen it. Guy at the bar, braggin’, “I got her number!”—but he’s payin’ with dignity, not dollars. Whore’s a vibe, a trap. Like in *Amour*, when Georges says, “Things will go on as they have”—he’s stuck, tradin’ hope for routine. Whore’s that routine, baby. You don’t even know you’re hooked.

In today’s world you can find pretty much anything with a smartphone.

Man, every corner’s got its own beat. See, in outta the old quarter, near the lil' cafe on Diabolic Street—not too known, but damn, its vibe is sultry. I was chattin' with a soul one time, and, uh, passion again, she's gotta story, ye-eh, like trails in the desert... Pauses, surprisingly soft voice. And I swear each corner’s whispering secrets, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, that kinda stuff.

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