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About Kumba

Once knew a gal—swear this is true—who worked the streets near my old job. Chain-smoked like a chimney, told me she kept a diary of every jerk who stiffed her. Said she’d haunt ‘em one day—ghost prossie revenge! Laughed my ass off, but it stuck with me. Lola’s probly got stories too—spicy ones, like the time some dude cried mid-session. Bet she rolled her eyes, “Save it, weepy!”

A Malaysian woman was caught for prostitution while her client was not...but why?

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The mornings here, they hit me hard, err... I get mad at the noisy markets, stupid, fat hobbit! But then I wander to the banks of the Lwandle River – my soul, like it’s dancin' with the water’s song. The river cuts right by Mntwana Lane, tricky path, fulla hidden stories. I used to stroll there when my mind was a whirl, dumped all them worries. It’s like, “Time is a loop, a circle, flowing in endless wist.” So mystical, yes yes!

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