DOGZ OF WAR – By Hannu Afere

My human stared straight ahead into the fog, his face scrunched up in concentration.

The borg lights going off in his ear let me know he was receiving a message. Outside this tin box, the world zoomed past like a neat montage without soul. Wherever there was a tree, I looked up and counted. Five, so far; with barely any leaves on. My human’s face made me anxious. Usually I would be able to interact with the AI counsellor, but he had disabled it; so, I just fiddled with the playlist. Ancient music was a favourite pastime for us.

The Wolf—Heart

She Wolf—Megadeth

She Wolf (again) but by Shakira

Dire Wolf— Grateful Dead

Run With the Wolf— Rainbow

Rainbow, eh? The beautiful things will kill you quicker. I like the dark better. If you can’t see anyone, then they can’t see you. 

Wolf at Your Door— Meat Loaf

Hour of the Wolf— Billy Joel

Night of the Wolf— Uriah Heep

I Never Met a Wolf Who Didn’t Love To Howl (SMASH Cast Version)

There was a Jọ̀hn in there somewhere— Staring Down Hyenas, but I couldn’t find it. And I don’t know about hyenas but around the wolves, you shouldn’t ever stare.

The tin box sliced through the highway. Few miles back it was black and fresh, yellow paint as perfect as a child’s picture book. Then the stripes had become aged with hairline cracks, the metal barrier that was on the centre had disappeared and given way to tufts of grass trying to look green. Now? The road had disappeared altogether. I observed my human. He looked frustrated with comms. The weather was confusing; it was foggy, yet hot outside.

“The ocean is sick,” he said, glancing down at me. “The biggest carbon lock up— a greater hope than even planting trees. But will they learn?”

I understood what he meant, but that’s because I am the electronic reincarnation of a Tibetan Monk, just completing the obligatory sixteen-year cycle. The truth is, I had become used to the gloom. In fact, I wasn’t holding my breath that Climate Solutions was going to come up with any, er, solutions.

Up ahead, a large concrete building loomed up out of the mist.

[Woof. Are we lost?]

There was a round shape on the ground. Then two round shapes.

It was my job to investigate, to navigate. When others cannot tell true north, I can. I literally feel it, taste it when I pant. I can sniff out the path when all they see is unmarked ground. My feet come to the trail as if they are magnets to Ògún’s iron.

I looked up at my human. I could see in his body language, an uneasy sense of foreboding. But he slowed the vehicle down to a crawl, stopped, and got out alone.

The round shapes were heads.

The heads lay there, covered in red, but still recognizably black. They were trying to tell him something, but all he heard was the crackling of codes. A short way off, their immobile torsos were lying face-up, side by side. As the chests heaved, still struggling to smuggle air through severed windpipes, he got an idea.

If there were any words in them, he would have to pull them out! He scanned the area for cameras. Four videos had been automatically uploaded within the last thirty minutes. All he’d need to do was to pull up the files and check the cerebral discs.

[Woof!] I said. But for some reason, he could not read me. Debris and dusty powder floated down; every surface was covered with it, and so was his hair. I could see now that human kennels lined the area like broken teeth. Whoever planned this site?

This was a bad idea. This was a really bad idea. Why had he even disabled his counsellor in the first place? It would have talked him out of this!

AI in autonomous cars was an amazing invention. Whereas in the old days you had to go look for a trustworthy mate to gossip with, you could just vent and rant, safely, to the machine. De-stress. Seek advice and get actual helpful, scientific answers. The latest upgrades were empaths and showed emotional intelligence. The machines were teaching humans how to become more human, hah! But this human had disabled his, and now the place looked suspiciously like anti-borg territory. If anti-borggers were in the fog, I would know because my augmented receptors would sniff them out. But I couldn’t and I didn’t. Still, I couldn’t shake off the feeling.

[Woof,] I growled.

“Shhhh,” he hissed back.

I looked up to see an insect drone whirring above the vehicle. I usually can only see a limited range of colours, but I could tell it was transmitting data as it danced around.

Now, I could feel the vibration of feet on asphalt from underneath the car. [Woof. You should have just sped on. Come back, abeg!]

The tin box was a capable machine, designed to put trouble in the rearview mirror as rapidly as possible. If it all came to the worst, it was as safe as a fortress. This wasn’t about bravery. The first rule of survival in the badlands was to avoid these kinds of neighbourhoods.

The ugly concrete building had all sorts of graffiti on the sides generously covered in piss, shit, and vomit. They say every artist needs a canvas. The inmates of the buildings had nothing other than these walls. Call me judgemental, but the profile being built in my head was that of folks who would set traps for unsuspecting travellers, just to relieve them of their valuables.

I counted six feet. Hostiles. You could tell from the way they breathed. Also, I could smell them now. I’ve had my fair share of scrapes. I’ve seen their kind roaming the streets during the day, terrorising common folk. I have witnessed them empty their ammunition into the stomachs of innocent men, I’ve seen them commandeer tankers of H20 at gunpoint, robbing entire communities of drinkable water— sometimes they did it to resell, sometimes they did it just for the sick pleasure they derived. Once, I observed them beat the living daylights out of a group of women and children with kòbókò and belts for absolutely no reason. On that occasion, I’d latched onto the wrist of their leader and hadn’t let go until he was on the ground with a dislocation. Within that time, the victims had managed to escape.

They were Death Dealers.

They wore grotesque masks with hallucinogenic vapour puffing out the top.

They were big burly bastards with Legacy Human tattoos and burn marks running up their arms. The pale, male chimeras were the very worst. I wanted to puke.

To these dealers, this was the best kind of beef. They attacked when they thought there was interesting history involved, or some sort of mercantile exchange. Or when they felt they could easily break one’s mind. My human was a simple matter of matter to be consumed once the fear had set in. That’s what death dealers do. That is what all our demons do. The onus is now on us, when we are regarded this way, to re-guard—fight back, like Jacob at Penuel. Fight back for what truly matters, fight back for love of self.

But how did they know this was our route? Did we get lost? Was our navigation system compromised? And how did they know my human would not be with his unit or the rest of the dogz?

The questions ran through my head like a pack of harmattan wolves, and, for a brief moment there, the fog lifted to reveal the three against one. The playlist progressed, but I wasn’t listening.

The song to really set the mood would have been Walking on Sunshine, because melodies bright and cheerful put me in a murderous rage. Or Q Lazzarus’ Goodbye Horses. Now, that is a great tune that does not age, it’s a sin, it’s just one scene from a popular movie it’s famous for— the score’s as haunting as it is halting. Eerie, and it’s just got that thing that makes all your inner Buffalo Bills go somersaulting.

“This is payback for what Ṣàngó did to Thor!” one of them boomed.

“And what you did to Lei Gong, byte prick!”

I winced, remembering that. Last year, the corrupt Supernatural Police had arrested my human. He was at the wrong place at the right time, the perfect kind of scapegoat. They had rigged his òrìṣà core to disintegrate within a few hours, and then they had locked him away in a subterranean cell. There had been a jailbreak that may or may not have been orchestrated by the rogue AI Ṣìgìdì, there had been a nationwide protest and an actual battle in front of the old Colonial Meadows. The Norse God of Thunder and his mighty Chinese partner, versus a young black male with nothing but his wits, his A.I and his roots.

“Go back to where you came from!”

When my human struck a stance and cracked his knuckles, I realised there’s only one thing more frightening than the enemy: becoming him.

They rushed forward. What happened next, was like that old folktale where the wolves hunting rabbits discovered a little too late that the cute little bunnies were the real predators. They were more cunning, more agile, and more bloodthirsty. Don’t let that shea butter cool fool you. What you’re looking at is a perfect killing machine. An actual Yorùbá demon with a 360-degree field of vision, the ability to jump not just long but as high as any Olympic gold medalist; and with titanium teeth, sharp and perfect for ripping out the organs you’d really need.

Sixty seconds later, only one Death Dealer was still conscious. Barely.

“Let’s put all that bad blood behind us, mhm?” My human said, going down on his haunches just to be at the dude’s eye level. “But get this: if you ever come after me again, I won’t be so nice. I’ll rip your tongue out and let you watch me lick my ass with it.”

***

Driving through the grey haze now, even I can feel the grip of the treads as my human flicks into cruise control. Peace, ugh, disgusting.

Also, why do I even worry about him?

I go back to fiddling with the playlist.

M|O|O|N’s Hydrogen from the Hotline Miami soundtrack is perfect for both the pack or the lone nutjob on the attack, and Hungry Like the Wolf by Duran Duran, Jidenna’s Classic Man, Haute Tropique by Man Man all fit the plan. Yemi Alade’s Kofi Annan— don’t even pretend that this song doesn’t piss you off too, because it does. The lyrics make me want to greet the writer with my claws. . . but there’s Make Your Own Kind of Music by Mama Cass Eliott and The virus of life by Slipknot.

My human drums his phalanges and sings along. The tin box breathes and takes energy as if it is a part of the scanty flora of the road. The driving is like running free.

Next up: Indiscriminate Murder Is Counter-productive, Machinae Supremacy. Cannibal Corpse follows with Sarcophagic Frenzy. I want the heavily distorted, low-tuned guitars, I want the bars, the palm muting and tremolo picking, deep growling vocals; aggressive, muscular drumming featuring double kick and blast beat techniques. The atonality, the madness and sadness, the chromatic chord progressions, the soundtrack to mayhem and seriously f–ked up first impressions.

I want the songs that take me down memory lane. I want the overload of optics, olfactory, sensory pain.

I am a Dog of War. I am fully aware that my relationship with the God of War is an unhealthy one; yet, another Jọ̀hn tune pops into my head: Iron Panegyrics. Beat drums for this enchantment that puppet-works the body. Eyes red, hooded; machete swift, silver— my God takes to palm trees, and with such dexterity, milks it of wine.

In the bush, when a dog’s head rolls and blood splatters the white of twenty, we remember ogún in number, ógún as war, ogun as inheritance, ògùn as protective science, Ògún does not forget. Away from the riotous celebration and in the middle of meditation the brown dog comes to the hermit, tail tucked in between its legs. It seeks to have an obstacle removed.

Ògún with the machete enquires gently, have you oppressed someone? Have you given bribe? have you coveted your neighbour’s property?

If the meal is bloody, Ògún eats first. The rawness is unfit for a king! But do you think he cares? You tell a lie when you are rail thin; he compels you to bite metal when you are fat! There was no water at home, so Ògún warmed blood for a bath. Fire melts iron as iron breeds fire; be careful lest you find firsthand how fashionable it is to attend a party without your head. So as the brown dog sits there faltering, his answers stick to the roof of his mouth. The Wild Monarch enquires gently still, have you oppressed someone? Have you given bribe? Have you coveted your neighbour’s property?

[Fearsome God,] I mutter under my breath. [God who does not forget after four hundred years; whether I can answer or whether I cannot answer, Ògún do not ask me any questions.]

Outside, the fog is thicker, and the tin box is hotter. My human slips a pill under his tongue, electrolytes to fight against dehydration, and then turns on the air conditioner. The landscape is so unfamiliar, it doesn’t even look like we are anywhere close to Ílẹ̀ Kaaro-o-jiire.

Then, for the second time in our journey, we slow to a crawl.

This time, four figures materialise out of the smog.

I recognise them instantly.

Ares, the bully, with his Greek feet unshod. Mars, the walking complex, with his roman nose twice broken. Tyr with his bionic arm, and Guan Yu, who is so powerful he imbues mere stage actors with his abilities every time they depict him.

“Wetin be dis na,” my human groans darkly. “How many more of these battles do we have to inherit?”

The borg lights start going off again. He scrunches up his face even worse than before and speaks through a clenched jaw. “Back up?” Whatever the reply was on the other end, made him shut his eyes.

I feel that. I hate this too. It is always Offsprings of Oppressors, versus Offsprings of the Oppressed. Legacy humans, versus augmented. Us, versus them. My human versus everybody with a trophy hunting obsession.

“Ògún làákàyè ooo.” he tries once more.

But our God of war does not answer. I bare my canines as the Dog of war, and let him reach down to unhook my harness.

“The heavens are silent,” he smiles, and his teeth are even more terrifying than my set. “Let’s raise hell for these gods then!”