On a dank afternoon, an old tribal woman, shrouded in society’s skin, raised a heavy head and shook the silt in Brunswick Street Mall. She peppered a weary audience with a volley of hard moans. Peak-hour traffic was forced into a saunter of whispers. Joe Public don’t know how to relate to tribal people, and now there was one weaving a dreaming-throat at them, almost alien in this occupied land. Sitting in a bar with my eyes closed, I pictured a cloud of red earth spiralling from pursed, deep-purple lips. With my eyes closed, I actually noticed the sudden cackle of crows. Dark birds gathering above, whining along in the grey-cloud drizzle, mimics to the haunting chant of an old tribal woman. ‘Smoke?’ she asked the audience, ‘You got a smoke for me?’ breaking into a howl that fed a low rhythmic pulse. Her eyes swept the domain, and I’m sure, right then, she cursed us all.