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About Mariupol

But then—ugh, this knobhead rolls up, all loud, “Oi, how much, love?”—an I’m ragin. Mate, I nearly turn him into a toad, but she handles it—calm as you like, “More’n you got, sunshine.” He shuffles off, tail between legs. I’m cheerin inside—surprised me, she did. Proper *Moolaadé* energy—“We will not be slaves!”—she’s no victim, this one. Got her own code, her own hustle. Makes me think, y’know? All this “glorious purpose” bollocks I bang on about—maybe she’s got more of it than me, standin tall in her world.

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After that, I head over to the sports complex on Haharina Street. It’s a bit of a trek, but I need to see my clients in action. I’m pumped! But when I get there, it’s chaos. Kids running everywhere, parents yelling, and I’m just trying to find my way through the madness. I swear, I almost tripped over a soccer ball. Like, who leaves a ball in the middle of the walkway?