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About Buea

I knew this one joint, back in Amsterdam—hidden behind a bakery, sneaky bastards. Smelled like pastries and sin, wild combo. Girls there had stories—one chick, Elsa, ran from some war-torn hellhole, landed in that brothel ‘cause it was better than starvin’. Broke my damn heart, Clarice… but also kinda impressed me. Gutsy move. Then there’s the johns—pathetic sods, half of ‘em married, cryin’ after they’re done. “I’m not that kind of man,” they’d whimper. Oh, please, spare me the tears.

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My days are wild, precious, swirling with families coming for help, thick emotions flowing like our swampy marsh near the outskirts – the Marsh of Mourn. Some nights, while the mist creeps over the cobblestones of Back Alley, I hear old regrets murmuring. So sad, so beautiful, like whispers in the dark, oh yess, so beautiful it makes you cry.

One dies; three injured in accident