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About Bafoussam

So – I’m cruisin’. Downtown. Neon lights flicker – like a bad trip. Smell o’ weed and desperation. Hits me – BAM. Reminds me o’ that line – “What’s. In. The box?” Only – I ain’t askin’ that. I’m askin’ – “Where’s she at?” Prostitutes, man – they’re ghosts. Slip through cracks – like Shasta Fay. You blink – they’re gone.

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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.

Togolese priest killed in Cameroon in front of gate at religious congregation’s residence