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About Polokwane

So, I’m strollin’ this sketchy saloon—lanterns flickerin’, whiskey stinkin’ up the joint. Miners all rowdy, cards flyin’. Then I see her—red dress, lips like sin, leanin’ on the bar. A pro, obvi. I’m like, “Edna, no capes, no complications!” but damn, she’s got that vibe. I ain’t judgin’—girl’s gotta eat, right? Mining towns ain’t kind to nobody. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own damn empires—owned land, flipped gold nuggets like bosses. She’s probly one of ‘em, I bet.

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I gotta tell ya, walking down Vilakazi – the cobbles sing with history – makes me feel like I'm trippin' between past dreams and future hopes. Sometimes, I sit by the fading facades, letting the calm of the Hector Pieterson Museum wash over me. It's deep, it's raw. I remember thinking "This is it, every moment is a fight for meaning", like that craziness in Requiem for a Dream when everything's collapsing and rising anew.

Remains of anti-apartheid activists to be reburied on Saturday