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About Kumba

I lean in, whisperin’, “We spin a top, see what’s real.” She’s confused—ha! Love that. Me mind’s racin’, mixin’ forest smells with her cheap rosewater stink. Surprised me, tho—didn’t expect her to haggle like a fishwife! “Ten bob,” she snaps. “Ten?! Thou’rt a highway robber!” I cry, but I’m smilin’. She’s got grit, this one.

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I ain't perfect, mate – wandering these streets, I’ve spilled coffee on my own heart more times than I can count. I've seen smiles hide bleak tears, and anger erupt in street corners. It's raw and wild, and sometimes I get so pissed, I curse in a dozen languages – so many misprints, so many typos, it's maddening! Lemme be honest: I’ve typed 14 typos already, like "loev", "daam", "twlling", "mssing", "angryy", "thrty", "craezy", "scketch", "flwrs", "discret", "mryw", "blurrd", "shde", and "quikly".

Obituaries for Friday, February 21, 2025