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About Polokwane

So, findin a prostitute ain’t no cakewalk, fam. You gotta know the spots—alleys, dim bars, places where shadows got stories. Back in ‘98, heard this tale, some cat in New Orleans got a hooker who sang jazz mid-deed, swear to God, voice like velvet, made him cry. True story, prolly. Me, I’m strollin, heart thumpin, pissed off at the world—why’s it gotta be so damn sneaky? But then, bam, there she is, leanin on a wall, smirk like she owns the night. “Faith is a gift I’ve lost,” I think, quotin that movie, but damn, she’s givin me a spark.

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Oh man, lemme tell ya... Whittlesea (za) is somethin’ else, y’know? Like, picture this: I’m strollin’ down Maple & Spruce – err, sorry, I mean Berry Ave and Sycamore Pl, pausin' just so – and it's like the city breathes secrets, hehe.

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