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I saunter up, all cocky, say, “Hey, how’s biz?” She laughs—dry, sarcastic laugh—goes, “Better than your fish stink.” Burn! I’m mad for a sec, but damn, she’s funny! Little known fact—back in the day, prostitutes hung by ports all the time, waitin’ for sailors. History’s wild, right? Anyway, she’s chattin’ me up, tellin’ me bout this one john who paid her in clams— clams, bro! I’m dyin’ laughin’, picturin’ her stuffin’ shells in her purse.

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Walk down Union Street – yeah, that's right, straight down the middle of chaos – and you'll bump into all sorts of characters. In my line of work – yes, I run the most kick-ass massage joint in town – I see secrets that most peasants wouldn’t dare whisper about. I’ve seen stressed-out academics sprinting like headless chickens on Lower East Street, and the damn art students railing on about "post-modern despair," like they’ve got a soul or something.

Life in jail for former Makhanda paramedic Nomsa Seyisi