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About Garoua

So, last week, I’m prowlin’—growling, “You merely adopted the dark.”—and I spot this bird, all fishnets and attitude. Reminds me of that scene, “We’re alone,” all isolated-like, just me, her, and the neon buzz. I’m thinkin’, “Mate, she’s either a jackpot or a fuckin’ setup.” Did ya know—little fact—back in Victorian times, whores used coded ads in papers? “French lessons,” my arse—sneaky bastards. Anyway, I’m chattin’ her up, heart poundin’—fuckin’ thrilled, yeah? But then—bam—some geezer rolls up, all aggro, demandin’ cash. Pissed me right off! I’m like, “Oi, cunt, I ain’t your ATM!”

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Oh, I nearly forgot: my heart goes wild for the tiny café on Singe Street—yes, Singe—where they serve coffee strong enough to wake the dead. I get there after a long day of kneadin' back muscles and heart talkin'. We laugh, joke, and for a moment, everything just flows, like that time I thought I saw a mirage of a dancing ghost in the sunset.

Malaria transmission pattern across the Sahelian, humid savanna, highland and forest eco-epidemiological settings in Cameroon