Omar Musa - Here Come the Dogs

Jimmy smiles again as Solomon dries his face on his shirt.

‘You heard that new Maundz?’ Solomon says.

‘Nah. Not yet. Any good?’

‘Yeah, bro. Kills it. Mad wordplay.’

Solomon’s smug now. Jimmy tries to keep up to date with everything. How did he miss it? ‘There’s a new Drapht clip out, but. I seen that,’ he says.

‘Oh, true? Didn’t see it.’ Even though Solomon doesn’t like Drapht, he looks crestfallen. Got ’im.

‘You hungry?’ says Jimmy.

Something is up. Solomon is unusually fidgety, almost nervous. He pats Mercury absentmindedly, but the dog ignores him and begins sniffing around the garbage bin. Jimmy lets him out into the backyard, puts the pizza in the microwave, sets up his Ipod and Action Bronson comes out the speakers.

‘Bro, I need to ask you a big favour,’ says Solomon.

‘Yeh?’

‘I can’t look after Mercury anymore. It’s doing my farkin head in. Mum’s on my case about it everyday. Reckon. reckon you could take care of him?’

Jimmy’s resentment dissolves. He almost wants to hug his brother. He gets on his computer and googles ‘how to look after a greyhound’. Jimmy looks back at Solomon grinning and sees a vague look of shame on his brother’s face turn to relief.

‘This is the best present I’ve ever got, bar none.’ He punches Solomon on the arm. For a moment, whirling movements in his brain are halted, slowed down at least, and he looks through the window and can see Mercury Fire staring right back, head cocked to one side.

‘We gonna take over the world, Mercury Fire,’ he yells out the window.

You always know when Solomon is about to leave — he looks for a mirror.

‘I broke up with Georgie today,’ he says.

On the television,

live from Parliament House.

Damien Crawford.

He is immaculate

in a shark-grey suit

and smiling confidently.

He is talking about the plight of ordinary Australian families.

He says that we need to demand a better standard

of compassion and tolerance from ourselves,

that, as Australia becomes more and more part of the region,

we need a better level of understanding between each other.

Then he stares right at the camera,

right at me,

and says,

‘That is one thing we can all agree on.’

Only a week has passed,

but there is not a single mark on his face.

A red glow pulsed like a barbarous heart.

It emanated from a bark hut that stood on the edge of the limestone plains. A hand that gripped a hammer was black with smoke, and sweat ran down a blackened face. Embers whirled up from white-hot shapes that were being clanged into the wherewithal to create a Town — rakes, spades, tongs, bayonets, rifle barrels.

The fire in the forge burned on.

The answer

Allen Iverson retired today,

so I’m in my old 76ers jersey.

A bit tight around the belly, ay?

Ooosh, remember

the maze braids, the cross braids,

the tatts, the cool, the crossover?

Kids these days,

man, they don’t even know who A.I. is.

I bounce the ball hard, excited,

remembering game one in the finals against the Lakers.

Even though I’m a lot bigger,

I always wanted to play like A.I. –

cool, but with heart.

As I handle the rock,

I look at my hands.

Scarlett paints her nails coral red,

‘Helps with depth perception,’

she reckons.

Forget that now.

All I care about is the court,

the ball,

the net.

Phantom defenders –

talk to em,

break em,

spin around em,

shake em.

Ball –

lace it behind back,

between legs,

under knees,

cat’s cradle it,

manipulate it,

roll it off fingers,

put English on it,

step back with it

and cash it out the side of the chain net.

Body –

feel the blood,

the vein and breath,

the moving, floating parts,

sweet stink of armpit

and sweaty forehead,

hear coach yelling,

‘It’s all in the legs, Solomon!

get em right and everything else will follow.’

Feel toes and heels and fingers,

feel it all atomise

and become one with an incandescent sky.

I lean against the hoop’s supporting pole

with my forearm,

breathing hard.

There’s graff on it,

nicely mixed red stainer,

letters dripping down like blood.

‘ROZA’ I think it says.

Melbourne boys always mixed dope stainer,

back in the day.

I hear a voice.

Toby.

He’s with a mate,

an audacious, thick-set boy with snaggle teeth.

‘Who’s this?’

Toby looks at his feet. ‘A friend.’ He pronounces it fwend.

He doesn’t hear so good

and has a speech impediment.

Was he born that way?

‘What’s your name, cuz?’

‘Muhammad. I wanna learn that shot,’ says the boy with a surprisingly deep voice.

I squint at them.

It’s not so hot today and there’s a nice breeze.

Why not?

‘Orright. Warm up first. Otherwise you’ll bust yaselves.’

I get em to run around the court

then stretch.

I stretch with them.

Jesus.

My muscles feel like rubber bands left in the sun.

‘All right. Layups. Both hands.’

They do that for a few minutes,

then I get them to play one-on-one.

Muhammad’s a natural –

quick first step, mongoose-like reflexes.

He lords it over Toby and I see Toby’s face cloud up.

‘Relax boys. It’s just for fun. You boys need more bounce. You should get skipping ropes.’

‘Like girls?’ Muhammad’s face lemony sour.

‘For your feet! Give ya a good leap. Quickness. Boxers use em.’

‘Like Anthony Mundine?’

‘Yer, Mundine. Roy Jones Jr. Muhammad Ali.’

‘Muhammad. See!’ says Muhammad to no one in particular.

I start dancing around them like a young Cassius,

shadowboxing their ears.

Soon they’re laughing and squealing,

avoiding the mock hooks and jabs.

Muhammad scuttles off to dinner,

practising flicking his wrist the way I taught him.

‘Can you shoot it from half-court, Solomon?’ asks Toby,

Big wide eyes and a weird puckering of the lips.

Poor kid just doesn’t want to go home.

I slap him on the back –

‘Let’s go, big fella. I’ll walk ya home.’

His house isn’t far away.

I stand in the driveway and

as he turns into the govvo flat,

he waves but isn’t smiling anymore.

Not a single plant in the yard,

but there are vines growing out of

a washing machine on the patio.

At home,

Mum’s not there.

Working a late shift,

as usual.

I ice my knees with a bag of frozen peas.

Then, as I shower,

I slowly turn the water from

scalding hot to cold,

and it swirls pink at my feet

from the sneaker cuts on my heels.

hot — cold — hot — cold

Delicious torture.

Letting on

‘I heard like ninety per cent of rappers in NZ are Samoan.’

‘That’s true,’ she says.

‘I always dug Kiwi rappers.

King Kaps and Che Fu are all-time greats, I reckon.

Mareko too.

What ever happened to Scribe? He was dope.’

‘He’s around.’

‘My bro Jimmy never liked him,

cos of the accent thing.’

She rolls her eyes,

holding her cocktail with both hands.

A constellation of light freckles

over shoulders, cheeks and nose.