Here Come the Dogs

 

ADDITIONAL PRAISE FOR
HERE COME THE DOGS

Longlisted for the Miles Franklin Award

“America please meet Omar Musa, a writer with the attuned ear of a great poet, the narrative gifts of a seasoned novelist, and no slight exposure to the beautiful struggle. This book is like one of those hip-hop songs that forevermore becomes an anthem—this time for the disenfranchised aspirants of Australia. Read him now or suffer for it.”

—Mitchell S. Jackson, author of
The Residue Years

“Omar Musa's writing is tough and tender, harsh and poetic, raw and beautiful; it speaks to how we live and dream now. This novel broke my heart a little, but it also made me ecstatic at the possibilities of what the best writing can do. His voice is genuine, new, and exciting; his voice roars.”

—Christos Tsiolkas, author of
The Slap

“The streets are alive with the sound of Omar Musa! Blood and fire, destruction and generation, nightmares and dreams, all converge in this breathtaking rendering of the forever-journey of masculine coming-of-age. Musa is a sterling stylist, and the combination of poetry and prose, literary narrative and hip-hop verse in
Here Come the Dogs
does that impossible thing: creates a work unlike any other.”

—Porochista Khakpour, author
of The Last Illusion
and
Sons and Other Flammable Objects

“A beautiful and angry book. Musa is a poet, and every page of this book speaks to his ferocious talent.”

—Fatima Bhutto, author of
The Shadow of the Crescent Moon

“Omar Musa is a brother to the world. His words inspire courage and a genuine desire to experience justice in the modern world.”

—Marc E. Bassy

“Race, alienation, sex, hip-hop (the dissertations on it are engrossing), graffiti and testosterone-fuelled violence signpost a breakneck plot that unfolds amid the malevolence of bushfire threat.”

—Paul Daley,
Guardian Australia,
Best Books of 2014

COLE BENNETTS

Omar Musa
is a Malaysian-Australian rapper and poet from Queanbeyan, Australia. He has opened for Gil Scott Heron, Dead Prez, and Pharoahe Monch and performed at the Nuyorican Poets Café in New York City. He attended University of California, Santa Cruz. He has released three hip-hop albums, two poetry books, and received a standing ovation at TEDx Sydney at the Sydney Opera House. He lives in Australia.

CONTENTS

• Title Page
  
• About the Author
  
• Copyright
  
• Dedication
  
• Prologue
  

Part One

1. Chapter 1
   
2. Chapter 2
   
3. Chapter 3
   
4. Chapter 4
   
5. Chapter 5
   
6. Chapter 6
   
7. Chapter 7
   
8. Chapter 8
   
9. Chapter 9
   
10. Chapter 10
    
11. Chapter 11
    
12. Chapter 12
    
13. Chapter 13
    
14. Chapter 14
    
15. Chapter 15
    
16. Chapter 16
    
17. Chapter 17
    
18. Chapter 18
    
19. Chapter 19
    

Part Two

1. Chapter 1
   
2. Chapter 2
   
3. Chapter 3
   
4. Chapter 4
   
5. Chapter 5
   
6. Chapter 6
   
7. Chapter 7
   
8. Chapter 8
   
9. Chapter 9
   
10. Chapter 10
    
11. Chapter 11
    
12. Chapter 12
    
13. Chapter 13
    
14. Chapter 14
    
15. Chapter 15
    
16. Chapter 16
    
17. Chapter 17
    
18. Chapter 18
    
19. Chapter 19
    
20. Chapter 20
    
21. Chapter 21
    
22. Chapter 22
    
23. Chapter 23
    
24. Chapter 24
    
25. Chapter 25
    
26. Chapter 26
    
27. Chapter 27
    
28. Chapter 28
    
29. Chapter 29
    
30. Chapter 30
    
31. Chapter 31
    
32. Chapter 32
    
33. Chapter 33
    

Part Three

1. Chapter 1
   
2. Chapter 2
   
3. Chapter 3
   
4. Chapter 4
   
5. Chapter 5
   
6. Chapter 6
   
7. Chapter 7
   
8. Chapter 8
   
9. Chapter 9
   

• Acknowledgements
  
• Credits
  
• Publishing in the Public Interest
  

PROLOGUE

This has always been a land of fire.

Once a year, the Ancients would go into the mountains in search of bogong moths. They carried burning branches and thrust them into rents in the rock, stunning the congregated moths, then catching them in fibrous nets or kangaroo skin. The moths were roasted on fine embers and the Ancients feasted, vomiting for the first few days but then growing accustomed to the rich, fatty food. The Ancients would return from the mountains with glossy skin, glistening like shadow.

Afterwards, fires would burn on the mountains for days.

PART ONE

1

Where are these cunts?

Too hot, bro,

Two by two they troop in,

In the dying light,

the crowd looks like hundreds of bobbling balloons,

waiting to be unfastened.

I stand up,

six-foot-two and shining,

twist side to side on my hinges

It's not like the boys to be late,

especially on a day like today.

Summer,

And here come the dogs . . .

Strange, smiling creatures,

lean-flanked and

An old bloke turns around and grins

with opalised eyes.

‘Nothing like the ole dishlickers, eh?'

I smile and flick a fly from my knuckle.

‘Fuck noath.'

The dogs' barks detonate across the track.

The trainers are gruff people,

but now they coo to the hounds,

straightening their racing silks,

crouching to check and bend their ankles.

A dry wind scythes across

the stands and I reach up

to keep my hat on.

‘Bushfire weather, ay?'

The old timer is right.

The Town is a powderkeg,

a perfect altar for a bushfire –

B-Boy Fresh

But I'm crisp tee fresh –

black on black, snapback,

toothbrush on sneaker,

But fark me dead,

the joints and muscles ache nowadays.

Sign of the times, ay?

I look at the old timer

and immediately touch the

muscles under my shirt

just to make sure.

I grin –

Solomon Amosa, you vain, vain bastard.

The big news

Jimmy ain't hard to spot in a crowd.

With all the grace of jangling keys,

my half-brother lurches

through the mass of drinkers and gamblers,

sharp Adam's apple visible even from here.

His eyes cut left to right,

paranoid and grim.

Walking behind him is Aleks,

smiling and nodding at people that he passes.

What a crew –

a Samoan, a Maco and my half-brother, a
something.

When Jimmy sits down I smack him

across the back of the head,

‘Oi, what took you so fucken long?' I say, taking my cap off and pass-

ing my hand over my dreds.

‘I had shit to do, bra.'

Aleks looks away and checks his bet,

‘Like what?'

‘I don't fucken have to tell you everything, do I? Jesus.'

Jimmy looks like he's gonna say something else

but instead he conjures two ciggies from behind his ear,

lights one and passes the other to me.

We smoke for a minute

and listen to the announcements.

Jimmy ashes his durry

and then looks sidelong at me,

lips expanding into a frog-like grin.

‘Oi, guess what?'

I'm watching some lads on a stag's night stumble along.

They're dressed in a bright-yellow uniform, wearing wigs.

Jimmy and Aleks look at each other and grin.

‘What?'

Jimmy clears his throat, then announces, ‘Sin One's gonna do a come-

back show. With the DJ Exit on the decks.'

My eyes cut back. ‘Sin One? You serious?'

‘He's moved back, brother,' nods Aleks.

I blow out smoke. ‘Ohh, man. When?'

‘After Chrissie.'

Sin One is almost universally recognised

in the underground

And he comes from our Town.

Can you imagine how fucken proud we are?

Drinks

When I bring back the tinnies,

Aleks and Jimmy are embroiled in an age-old argument –

I take a black marker from my pocket

and begin to draw on a five-dollar note as I listen.

Jimmy, who loves lists,

1) Flow: how do they ride, bounce off, play with, sound on a beat?

2) Lyrics: how do they play with words, use metaphors, create memorable images, tell stories?

3) Voice: were they naturally gifted with a voice that just
cuts through
and gives you shivers, that booms or rasps or honeys?

4) Consistency: have they produced quality work over an extended period of time?

5) Live show: can they rock the fuck out of a crowd of people, big or small?

Added to this are more nebulous criteria based on online rumours,

freestyle abilities, face-to-face encounters and gut feelings.

Jimmy and Aleks prefer grimier, old school Melbourne stuff,

‘All right, then. Top five best MCs,' says Jimmy, who reels off his list immediately. ‘Brad Strut, Trem, Geko, Lazy Grey, Bias B.'

Aleks, too, is ready. ‘Trem, Strut, Pegz, Delta, Vents.'

‘Hm. Fucken hard one.' I think for a second. ‘All right, um . . . Solo, Mantra, Suffa, Tuka, Hau, Joelistics . . . That new Briggs shit is heavy, too. And that dude One Sixth from Melbourne.'

‘I said top five, bro,' snaps Jimmy.

‘Oi, relax.'

‘Storytelling, mate,
lyrics,
that's what it's about,' announces Jimmy.

‘Yeah, yeah, you always say that. Then Solo from Horrorshow or Mantra's number one,' I say. ‘Deep shit. Mad flows, too.'

Aleks and Jimmy shake their heads in unison. ‘Nah, that shit's gay as, always singing and shit. That's not true school. Plus, Solo looks like a tennis instructor,' says Jimmy.

‘You're one to talk, you preppy cunt! You're stuck in the nineties, bro. Music moves on,' I say.

‘Now, Trem. That's an MC. Tells it how it is – graff, crime, darkness. Voice is like a fucken . . . like a diamond cutter,' says Aleks. ‘Strut too – apocalyptic.'

‘You can't dance to it, but,' I counter. ‘That shit's too serious for me. When it started, hip hop was about getting a party goin'. Sydney shit does that better.'

Jimmy is getting heated. ‘Sydney shit is weird. Their accents sound American. They say “days” like “deez” and “mic” like “mark”. Hate that.'

We laugh.

‘What about a chick?' I venture. ‘None of us even put one in there.'

‘
Tsk
. Ya PC cunt. Been hanging with that femmo girlfriend of yours too much. When chicks rap, I just don't
feel
it.'

‘What 'bout Lauryn Hill? Jean Grae?'

‘Aussies, I mean'

‘Layla. Class A.'

The boys shrug. As Aleks leans forward, a blue bead swings on a leather strap around his neck. ‘The Hoods sold more than anyone else,' he says.

‘Fuck sales. It's not about sales; it's about impact and the quality. If you use that argument, you could say Bliss n Eso are more important than Def Wish Cast.'

‘Or Vanilla Ice is better than Kool G Rap.'

Jimmy turns his glittering eyes on me. ‘Those private school boys must've taught you about hip hop, ay. That's why you're not into the hard shit.'

Cunt.

The private school thing is always Jimmy's trump card,

Aleks frowns.

‘Fuck . . . I went for basketball, you know that.' I say, lamely. Then I return to the name that kicked off the debate – ‘Sin One.
Orphan Slang. Fire and Redemption.'

The others nod.

‘Yeah, goes without saying. Should be top of every list. Pity it's been so long since he released an album,' says Aleks regretfully.

I look at the five-buck note –

Queen Elizabeth now has a crown of thorns

and a timebomb on her shoulder.

‘You seen our dog yet?' asks Aleks.

Mercury Fire

Tonight is Mercury Fire's last race.

He's our favourite,

the reason we still come to the greyhounds.

It began as a joke –

But then we saw him race.

Blind in one eye with a kinked back leg,

he's smaller than the other dogs,

but somehow he beats all comers.

Every time, he starts slow

but ends with power,

An ageing warrior,

We all sit silently,

drinking.

Aleks

We never get to see Aleks.

He's got a missus, a young daughter

and a house he built himself.

Still, even after all this time,

he has that pirouette of smoke

At age five he moved here from Macedonia

and despite limited English

quickly established himself

as king of the kids

with his fast, big fists.

At age thirteen he knocked out an English teacher

who tried to make him

spell his name with an ‘x',

not a ‘ks'.

It was around this time he found

another use for his hands.

One day, when a graff crew from Sydney

painted a wildstyle piece under the bridge

Aleks discovered a love

to replace the sweet science

From then on it was burners/

boltcutters/

blackbooks

and

guerilla expeditions to Bunnings

to rack paint cans/

The Old Timer

‘When I was in England,

I visited Old TRAFFORD,

the home of MANCHESTER UNITED.'

‘We can hear you, mate –

we're right here.'

The old timer's been talking frog shit for nearly

fifteen minutes now.

Sad bastard –

‘Johnny No-Cash,' says Aleks in my ear.

I stifle a smile.

‘The coach told me I had the BEST LEFT BOOT

he had ever seen.'

Bullshit artists

come a dime a dozen in this town –

A message from Georgie

Good afternoon, beautiful boy.

In boring lecture having naughty thoughts about u.

Can't wait 2 c u 2nite. Luv, Porge x

Love?

I pocket the phone.

When's this race gonna start?

A little something to rev things up

I wipe the top of the cistern

and bring up my hand –

there's white powder on my palm.

I love doing that.

It's almost like I've busted someone in the act.

Aleks takes out a marker

and writes his tag on the cubicle wall

with a flourish.

Meanwhile, Jimmy racks up

three lines

with a seasoned hand

and his keycard.

Aleks does a line and blinks.

‘Dearo fucken me! This is good shit, bro. Aryan white.'

I roll up the drawn-on five-buck note

and hoover a line.

The cocaine hits immediately –

a cold zoom in the guts,

a perfectly timed tackle.

I backflip

into a glacial crevasse.

The track

The track smoulders.

Thick lights shine down

holding within them insects

and motes of dust.

The dogs' feet articulate

In part dieted on honey, vegetable oil and eggs,

Tinny announcements over the loudspeakers.

The trainers are hand slipping the dogs now,

one hand on the collar

the other arm hooked at the base of

their undercarriages

shuffling them forward into the traps.

Like everyone else,

In the stands,

we can hear the dogs' high-pitched