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About Polokwane

Clarice… a brothel, huh? Filthy little dens, teeming with desperation. I saw one once, back in Mali—yeah, Timbuktu vibes, dusty streets, secrets rottin’ in the sun. “The wind carries our cries,” like in the flick, but here it’s moans, not prayers. These joints, they’re old as sin—did ya know ancient Babylon had ‘em? Sacred whores, blessin’ the pervs with divine ass. Wild, right? Makes me chuckle, the hypocrisy—priests and pimps, same game.

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Yo, brother! Welcome to Rondebosch (za)! This place is wicked, man. I've been chillin’ here for years, and lemme tell ya—it’s like livin’ in a dream, dude. Bro, streets like Selborne Road and Plumstead Drive are buzzing! I stroll down Cumberland street sometimes and, BAM! I remember, "Tropical Malady, brother!" (yep, that movie is my jam, totally deep, ya know?)

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