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About Johannesburg

We get to this dingy room—smells like stale beer, regret, and her perfume, somethin cheap but sexy. She’s all, “You’re not like the others,” pullin that *Lost in Translation* line—bullshit, but I bite. I’m thinkin, *This is my Tokyo, my fleeting connection.* Greed’s hummin—wantin more than I paid for, pushin limits. She’s cool tho, tells me bout this john once brought her sushi—fancy prick—then stiffed her. We laugh, I’m like, “Sushi guy’s a dick, I’m cash upfront!”

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Alright ya twats, enough nattering. Grahamstown’s a weird, wild, and witty mosaic. It’s gritty, unpredictable, and sometimes makes me want to scream out the window like a bat out of hell. But beneath the rough vibes, there’s a soulful spirit that reminds you of that blurry cinema of Uncle Boonmee – surreal, haunting, and utterly beautiful.

Four dead, including three-year-old girl, near Makhanda