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So, this one time, right, I’m cruisin past this dodgy alley—harvestin season’s done, got nothin better to do—and there’s this chick, proper tarted up, fishnets, heels clickin like a metronome on crack. She’s yellin at some punter, “You think I’m cheap, huh?!” I’m like, bloody hell, love, ya screamin loud enough to wake the crows! Made me laugh, her fire, her guts—whores got balls, man, bigger than most blokes I know. Reminds me of that line from *Caché*—“I’m not guilty, you are!”—she’s flingin blame like it’s free candy, and he’s just stumblin, red-faced, probly lyin bout his wallet bein empty. Everybody lies, right?

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I been thinkin’, like Tony would say, "Ya gotta take these moments, appreciate every gabagool moment, capisce?" There’s an alley near the back of the City Centre where the murals spill secrets in color. I sometimes run past it, thinkin’ bout how feelings and paint meet, heh, a bit like a therapy session on a brick wall.

These matriculants have been waiting for their certificates from Umalusi for three years