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About Johannesburg

Oh, and the dealers—slimy as eels, floggin’ it cheap to desperate farmers. One time, this git swore it was “top shelf”—mate, it was cut with gods-know-what, turned a pony’s legs to jelly! Laughed my arse off when he begged me not to snitch—pathetic. Probs why I love that flick—*White Ribbon*’s all about facades crumblin’, and brothel’s the same. Looks legit, ain’t worth shit. “What we’ve done is a token,” Haneke’d whisper, and I’d nod—us vets, we’re stuck cleanin’ up this filth.

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Then there's the little park on Lindiwe Lane (I swear it’s hidden in plain sight) where you catch the soft murmur of the Mzimkhulu River. Ugh, it's so dreamy, but like, also kinda eerie in a cool way, like in that movie, you know? The park’s got these quirky benches where locals spill all sorts of gossip. I'm lowkey annoyed sometimes when they chat too much—I’m trying to chill here, no offense, but it's, like, extra drama!

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