Omar Musa: Here Come the Dogs

Familiar somehow

I roll up my sleeves so they can see my tatts.

The lecture theatre is full

when I walk in,

and I sense all eyes on me,

even the guest lecturer’s.

Still got it, boy, still got it.

I squeeze in next to Georgie.

She kisses me quickly

then faces the front.

Only two other ethnics in here:

An Eritrean girl in a hijab and a pretty Polynesian chick.

Stuffy as a rape dungeon in here.

The lecturer, who is visiting from Brisbane, is talking about ‘lateral violence’ and ‘the patriarchy’. The Polynesian girl raises her hand and explains that, in Samoa, there is a covenant of respect between brother and sister with special honour given to the sister. It is called feagaiga. She looks over at me as if she wants some back-up. The discussion is soon about something called ‘intersectionality’.

How the fuck did I get myself into this whole greyhound shemozzle?

Drug-fuelled fuckwittery, that’s how.

Sheeeit, you gotta laugh.

But what’s mum gonna think when I

bring a dog up into our tiny flat.

Cross that bridge when I see it, ay.

The lecturer is a willowy blonde in a well-cut navy suit.

Firm jaw, very blue eyes –

familiar somehow.

I started a degree at this uni, doing English and history. Mum was heartbroken when I dropped out, kept reminding me how disappointed Dad would’ve been.

Do you take a greyhound for a walk everyday?

Or does it have to be a run ?

Do you have to feed them fresh meat?

Could cost a fucken fortune.

A guy with glasses and frizzy red hair raises his hand and asks the lecturer, in a vaguely aggressive tone, if she believes in ‘misandry’. A groan goes around the room.

‘What’s misandry?’ I whisper to Georgie.

‘Hatred of men.’

The lecturer taps her pen on the table, smiling, as if she has spent her whole life preparing for questions like this, in deed and in word.

‘Where do I start with this old chestnut? I get a lot of these so-called Men’s Rights activists asking the same question online, I can tell you, mate.’ When she says the last word it sounds anything but matey. ‘As far as I’m concerned, sexism, just like racism, must have a power element involved to make it potent and/or relevant. And you cannot deny, statistically, that women are disproportionately affected by both economic and physical violence.’

I swear she looked in my direction when she said that. A to and fro begins between frizzy hair and the lecturer, its gladiatorial vibe almost reminding me of a rap battle.

Battle raps

Battles are heaps lame nowadays.

No beats,

No freestyles,

No flow –

basically just rhyming stand-up comedy.

Jimmy loves em

but we never go anymore.

Old Jimmy –

what’s that cunt up to?

He’s been pretty straight since

he got locked up as a teen,

but something diabolical is going on.

I can feel it.

The frizzy-haired bastard won’t die easily.

His voice timid:

‘You mentioned intersectionality. but if I can, um, I was wondering where you think class fits into all of this. I mean, what about class privilege? Could, say, the privilege of an upper-class Muslim woman outweigh the status of a poor white Australian man?’

. but the lecturer is a tigress

‘White male privilege supersedes all else. Misandry is like reverse racism. It’s a fallacy — a concept that exists only in the minds of vapid, delusional people, not in the real world. The world, the weight of its history, the structures ingrained with sexism, would have to be turned on their heads in almost every way for me to believe that concept has any validity. It’s bullshit.’

When she says that word,

her clipped speech drops for a second

and sounds Woggy, familiar.

Then it hits me. I do know this woman.

It’s Jana Janeski. Aleks’ sister.

Holy shit.

I wonder if I should tell him she’s in town.

What would he do if he knew she was here?

I think of that white-hot summer,

when he snatched the blue bead.

Georgie whispers, ‘What’s wrong, Solomon?’

‘Nothing. Nothing.’

I look at the man

and his frizzy head is down,

embarrassed and dejected.

I wonder if he’ll ever ask a question again.

The uni toilets

There are shittily drawn

cocks, balls and pussies on the wall.

Aren’t students supposed to be clever?

I take out a Molotow

and bomb up the bathroom mirror,

the felt squeaking on the glass

leaving black letters

quote marks,

a crown.

LUMIN

Just to let em know.

A glass of water

‘That bloke is an idiot. He always butts in with his contrarian questions.’

‘Yeah. Sexist prick.’

‘Typical.’

A long wooden table at a new cafe on the edge of uni, packed with Georgie’s classmates. Nothing is under thirty bucks in this joint. Things on the menu I’ve never heard of — spirulina, quinoa, goji berries, Himalayan pink salt. I perch on the end and order a glass of water.

‘So I think I’m going to go to Africa these holidays to do some aid work,’ Georgie announces. It is all white faces, besides the Eritrean girl, who looks away and adjusts her headscarf.

‘Wow, that is so brilliant,’ says a redheaded girl with two moles on her chin. ‘I worked in Bangladesh at an orphanage last year for six weeks. I got this blouse there, actually. The children were such sweethearts. It felt really amazing to give something back.’

The Eritrean girl again shifts uncomfortably and I am filled with a sudden rage. ‘There aren’t any people here in Australia you could help out?’ I ask drily. The table turns to me. It’s the first thing I’ve said all day.

‘True,’ Georgie says accommodatingly, also seemingly surprised I’ve piped up. ‘I guess I could go to a remote Aboriginal community. ’

‘No,’ I say, ‘I mean here. In the City, in the Town. You know how many homeless people there are? Kids with no dads, bored outta their skulls. Three generations on ice. Start in your own backyard.’

‘That’s not the point, Solomon. Does it really matter where in the world you help out, as long as you do? There’s just something about Africa that really draws me to it.’

‘Look, I’m not talking about anyone here,’ I say uncertainly, before deciding to plough in. ‘All I’m saying is that I hate it when people head overseas on their big exotic adventure when there are people in need here. It’s so they can wash their hands of it and come back to their boring, middle-class lives, sit around at uni and brag to their friends about how they helped some real, authentic people of colour.’ I pinch my middle finger and thumb together to accentuate my point. ‘People do that with hip hop workshops. Go to a community for three days, make good money, then never return.’

‘So what is it that you do, then? To actively help the community?’ says mole-chin with a heart-eating grin.

That gets me for a moment, but I ignore it. ‘That’s beside the point. It’s the self-congratulation I hate. Like in that classroom. You crush some useless dickhead like that, or post a status on Facebook, then dust your hands off for the day. Tiny, pointless victories, while the world rolls on regardless.’

‘No, it was about making him recognise his privilege. You have to call it when you see it,’ retorts Georgie.

‘How do you define privilege?’ I ask, warming up. Been a long time since I discussed something like this.