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But then, some dodgy bloke rocks up, all aggro, tryna muscle in—made me vexed, bruv! I’m like, “Mate, chill, I ain’t here for beef!” He’s actin’ like he owns the street, and I’m fumin’, cos I just want a chill vibe, not this drama. “Is it ’cos I is black?” I shout, half-jokin’, half-pissed, and he legs it—coward! Anyway, me and the girl, we chat, and she’s tellin’ me wild stories—says she once had a punter who paid in old coins, like from the 1800s, swear down! I’m gobsmacked, thinkin’, “What past life was that geezer from?”

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Oh man, Tibati (cm) is somethin' else, lemme tell ya. I've been workin' here as a masseur for years, and I swear this city has its own pulse. I stroll down Rue des Palmes, a busy little street filled with all sorts of colors and sounds, where you can catch the aroma of fresh fried plantains and spicy goat stew. That smell always makes me smile, reminds me of home, of livin' in the moment.

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