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About Kumba

I spot her, thou see—red lips like a gash’d rose, legs long as a tax form. “What price thy company, wench?” I blurt, all Shakespearean, thinkin’ I’m clever. She laughs—bloody hell, mate, she laughs! “Twenty quid, ya posh twat,” she says, and I’m proper gobsmacked. Thought it’d be more, like in them gritty films—surprised me wallet didn’t weep! “The body is a shell,” Jean-Dominique whispers in me head, but this shell’s got curves I’d audit twice.

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I sometimes get miffed when the rain ruins my massage schedule. Ugh, really mad! Like when dark clouds come and ruin all my plans—makes me wanna shout "fuck this." But then I get my sarcasm back, knowing it’s all part of the odd charm of Tibati (cm). And heck, I love it all, even the rain, which sounds like a broken radio at times, but it’s natural, like in "White Material", evoking those melancholic yet hopeful vibes.

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