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About Polokwane

Back in ‘75, Ford spat it out—cheap, basic, no soul. Little known fact: German-built ones were solid, but American? Junk. Falls apart faster’n a cowboy’s heart. “We’re goin’ nowhere,” I mutter, kickin’ its tire. Surprised me once—saw one pimped out, matte black, loud pipes. Thought, “Hell, maybe it’s got guts.” Nope. Still a weakling. Darth don’t roll with that.

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Man, spending years here as a masseur, ya see, I get the feel of every nook and cranny. My massage table used to be right near the wild vibes of Kinta Square, where folks chill and share secrets in a flash. I always say, "Respect my authoritah!" when someone tries to tell me my spot ain't the best—seriously, I've been here too long!