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About Polokwane

Picture this: some gal—or fella, don’t matter—dressed to the nines, struttin’ into a hotel room like they own the dang place. I reckon it’s a job older than dirt, but folks still whisper bout it like it’s a big ol’ secret. Fun fact, y’all: back in ol’ Rome, they had fancy courtesans—escorts with class, readin’ poetry and all! Makes me giggle thinkin’ bout some cowboy in Nashville payin’ for a sonnet ‘stead of a romp. Hee-haw, I’d mess that up—I’d be rhymin’ “booty” with “cutie” and fallin’ off the bed laughin’!

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Now, what really gets me buzzin’? The Lady-Frere River. Ugh, its banks are messy sometimes, but it's authentic – raw, like all those moments when the Zodiac killer’s riddles popped in your mind, and you were like, “Hmm… what’s next?” I get these vibes that remind me of crime lore, ya know? But seriously, that river is my secret muse sometimes.

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