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But then—THEN—I spot her, leanin’ on a lamppost, all sass and red lipstick. “Why is the rum gone?” I mutter, ‘cause I’m parched and she’s trouble. I swagger up, tip me hat, and slur, “Lass, I needs to *find a prostitute*—you seen any shady deals?” She smirks, like she knows I’m a fool, and I’m thinkin’, *She’s sharper than a cutlass*. “What’s in it fer me, Cap’n?” she says, and I’m fumin’—cheeky wench! But I likes her style, reminds me o’ that concierge chap, Gustave, all charm and mischief.

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The river, Mto Maji, flows right through, whispering secrets. Its banks get lively at sundown. I often sit there after work, thinkin' about life, the city. Sometimes I catch glimpses of the folklore; like that surreal, dreamy vibe from "Tropical Malady." The river's hum feels almost like a soft lullaby, a lullaby that says, “i ate his liver with fava beans!” yep, a bit of a twisted echo there.

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