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About Polokwane

But then—bam—she hops in, and I’m hit with this smell. Perfume and cigarettes, like a dive bar exploded. “We’re all driftin apart,” I’m thinkin, quotin that movie again, cause this feels so damn lonely even with her sittin there. I ask her name—Candy, she says, and I’m rollin my eyes. Candy? C’mon, that’s faker than a three-dollar bill! Gets me riled up—why lie bout somethin so small? But whatever, I’m in it now.

Redvelvet Randburg

Of course, a pleasure coach (that’s me, mate!). I see the city through colorful lenses; every street corner be a stage, every bus stop a theatre of stories. I’ve had moments where I felt the raw pulse of Randburg. There were times when I got mad—yep, infuriated with how the noise and chaos sometimes clouded that hidden beauty, but then a moment of brilliance would hit ya out of nowhere, filling ya up with happy wonder. “No, this is it—this madness is art!” I’d mumble like a mad wizard casting spells.

One doctor for 400 patients: Inside the crisis at Randburg clinic