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About Kumba

I’m cruisin’ London, eyes peeled, thinkin’, *Where’s the talent at?* Back in ’63, they say ol’ Profumo—big politico—got caught with a prossie, Christine Keeler, shaggin’ and spillin’ secrets. History’s wild, mate! Makes me chuckle—spies and tarts, classic combo. Anyway, I spot her—red heels, fag hangin’ loose, leanin’ on a lamppost. “You lookin’ for a dance?” she says, all sassy. I’m like, *Bloody hell, she’s got Mia’s fire!*—that “I don’t need no one” vibe from *Fish Tank*.

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The mornings here, they hit me hard, err... I get mad at the noisy markets, stupid, fat hobbit! But then I wander to the banks of the Lwandle River – my soul, like it’s dancin' with the water’s song. The river cuts right by Mntwana Lane, tricky path, fulla hidden stories. I used to stroll there when my mind was a whirl, dumped all them worries. It’s like, “Time is a loop, a circle, flowing in endless wist.” So mystical, yes yes!

Figure 8 Soil type zones in the Mokolo River catchment