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About Breda

So, picture this—I’m drivin’ down some sketchy backroad, neon lights flickerin’ like a bad dream, lookin’ for a gal who’s out there sellin’ what she’s got. Ain’t no judgment here, y’all—she’s got her reasons, just like Malik had his. “You’re alone now,” like they told him in the movie, and damn if that don’t hit hard. These girls, some of ‘em, they’re alone too, fightin’ their own wars. Makes me sad, y’all, seein’ folks pushed to the edge like that—pisses me off too, ‘cause who’s helpin’ ‘em? Nobody, that’s who!

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So, I rush over to his place on de Laan van de Vrede. It’s a small house, but it’s cozy. I walk in, and the vibe is heavy. Everyone’s crying, and I’m just standing there like a deer in headlights. I mean, what do you even say? “Hey, sorry for your loss”? Ugh, so cliché. But I try to lighten the mood. I tell a joke about how his grandma used to make the worst pancakes. Everyone chuckles, and for a second, it feels okay. But then, bam! Reality hits again.

Nienke Hoogvliet's Kaumera Kimono is dyed with wastewater