The Minotaur at Calle Lanza, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Zito Madu
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First edition 2024
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
ISBN: 978-1-953368-66-9
Belt Publishing
13443 Detroit Avenue, Lakewood, OH 44107
www.beltpublishing.com
Cover art by David Wilson
Book design by David Wilson
1
Venice is one of those extraordinarily strange places in the world. Before I landed there in the fall of 2020, it had been made known to me so much through literature, photos, paintings, and stories told by friends and friends of friends. But instead of all that information making it real and graspable, it rather made it seem so fantastical that on the very first day I walked around the city, I stopped once, pushed my feet hard on the cobblestone streets and, feeling their concreteness, told myself, yes, this is a place that’s as real as everywhere else.
My flight from Amsterdam to Venice was short. Though there had been more people on the plane than the one I’d taken from Detroit to Amsterdam, it was still relatively empty. When we landed, I was surprised at how small Marco Polo Airport was. It was a standard airport, but standard was good for me. It was easy to get my lone bag and find my way outside. In the open, I realized my phone had no signal—it couldn’t even connect to the airport’s Wi-Fi. To make matters worse, I didn’t speak any Italian, which meant asking for help was going to be difficult. I somehow managed to retain none of the language I’d picked up from years of watching and reading about AC Milan and following Serie A. Looking around, I didn’t see anyone who seemed like a worker or an authority figure, and so, not knowing what to do, not knowing how to get from Marco Polo to the apartment I was supposed to be staying at in the city, I sat on top of my bag in front of the airport and waited.
I was waiting. Waiting for the time to pass. Waiting because I was tired and because being in Venice, especially on my first visit, felt strange at the time. I was waiting for something to happen. Nothing in particular but something. If I had been more religious, I would say I was waiting for a sign. But I wasn’t, and I’m not religious. It also wasn’t quite right to say I was just waiting. That’s only one part of it. The other part is that I was sitting there, being held in place by the guilt of leaving my parents behind when they needed me the most. They were perfectly within the demographic of older people who were deemed highly vulnerable at the time, and being teachers who were pushed into remote instruction, they were struggling with their day-to-day work while trying to survive from the larger catastrophe.
While stuck, I thought about how small Marco Polo Airport was. Its smallness made it feel more welcoming and less intimidating than I had expected. I felt like I had landed in a small town, not a city like Paris, London, or New York. Understandably, because international—and local—travel was heavily restricted, there weren’t too many people around. A few walked in and out of the airport as I sat there. Some glanced at me in passing. Others looked longer. I pretended not to see them.
2
The first place I ever saw outside of Nigeria was Paris—from the inside of Charles de Gaulle Airport. I was seven at the time. The sight left a deep impression on me. It didn’t make me want to go back to Paris in particular, but for a young child who had only been in his village and the villages around it before, that first glimpse of Paris blasted my mind open to the fact that there was so much to see in the world. I still feel attached to that airport, which for me was the sight of a second birth.
Before that, I lived with my family in a village in Imo State in southeastern Nigeria. Our great adventure out of that small part of the world began because of a tease and a test of friendship. Years before our flight out to Paris, my then pregnant mother was walking with a friend to the traditional August meeting for Igbo women. The friend was walking quickly ahead of my mother because she was trying to drop off visa lottery applications for her family before the meeting started. My mother was exhausted, and she joked to her friend that their friendship must not be close because the friend hadn’t gotten applications for our family. For my mother, it was an inconsequential quip, but the next day, the woman showed up with several applications to prove her friendship. My mother filled the papers out and sent them off. Time went on and she forgot about them.
A while after that, she received a response that said the applications had been approved and that our family had been accepted to go through the rest of the process. This meant more papers to fill out, as well as interviews and expensive payments. My father, knowing that there were many scams around the immigration process, and grifters taking advantage of people’s desperation to leave, judged the letters of approval to be fake. He put the paperwork away and forgot about it until one of his friends from the States came over to see him the night before his flight. As is tradition with my father and his friends, the two of them stayed up through the night, drinking and trading stories. In the early hours of the morning, my father’s friend brought up the idea of our family possibly immigrating, which my father dismissed, noting that he had already received scam approval papers. His friend, curious about the letters, asked if he could see them. My father showed him, but rather than the friend laughing along with the joke, he said that the papers were, in fact, real. My father needed to fill out the documents immediately; the friend would take them to the embassy on his way back to the States. In the morning’s early hours, my parents, suddenly filled with the possibility of a new life elsewhere, completed the rest of the paperwork, helped by Wite-Out, and sent it off.
What followed was a long process of receiving more papers, filling them out, traveling from the village to Port Harcourt and Lagos to fill out even more papers, and going through multiple interviews—all with the stress of possibly uprooting our family and moving to the US. The process cost my father almost everything financially. At the time, there were seven of us, though my mother was pregnant. All the land my father’s father had left for him and his siblings he sold to fund the migration process—a personal shame and failure he still carries with him. Even worse, when the application costs exceeded all the money we had, my father, who has all the pride in the world, went and, as he puts it, begged people for help. He still carries this shame with him as well.
By luck and grace, we managed to get visas for my entire family, an unprecedented result in the immigration lottery. Usually, visas were given out to only a few family members. According to my mother, the first day my father went to pick up our visas, he was given four. When he returned the second morning to pick up the last three, he was refused by the woman working the counter. She said that they hadn’t given out more than four for one family before. My father begged the woman, but she refused. This was happening on the second floor of the building, and not knowing what to do, seeing that the woman would not budge, he headed toward the stairs. That’s when he ran into the consulate officer who had given him the first four visas, and she asked him if he had picked up the remaining ones. He said no, and instead of reporting that he had been refused, he simply said that he was only just getting there to pick up the rest. The officer then took him back upstairs, where he waited by the counter as she went behind to pick up the rest of the visas and hand them to him. He paid for the rest and left. Our plan was then that four of us would go first—my father and the three oldest children: my older brother, my younger sister, and me. We were to establish ourselves there before my pregnant mother and my other sister and brother would join us. More than anything, it was a financial matter; the others had to wait until my father could find enough money to pay for their combined flights.
I remember the cold of September 1998 in Detroit, Michigan. I remember the thrill of seeing a yellow light. I remember moving to the small room on the second floor of the house on Clements Street on the city’s West Side. Our landlord, Mr. Collins, had a handlebar mustache and wore a cowboy hat and cowboy boots. I had never seen anyone like that before. Since we had no winter clothes when we arrived, Mr. Collins and his wife, Cookie, gave us the coats and sweaters their adult children had worn when they were younger. Mr. Collins gave my father a long Oakland Raiders coat that had belonged to him. My favorite picture of my father is of him standing in the snow with that coat on, sporting the buzzcut that he would shave off a few years later, going bald in order to save the ten-dollar cost of a haircut and instead spend it on his children.
My youngest brother was born in the States at the end of that October, soon after my mother and the others arrived. All eight of us lived in a small room in that house. In those days, my father worked as a stock boy at Rite Aid. He had to do this after he and my mother learned that all their teaching certifications and years of work in Nigeria meant nothing in the States. Turning a corner in the maze of memory, I see the eight of us huddled around a space heater in that one room. I can still feel the cold of that first winter.
As time passed and my mother and father found more footing, we were able to rent the whole top floor of the house. Later on, we moved to the bottom floor, which was bigger, while Mr. Collins’s son, whose face I remember but whose name I can’t, lived upstairs with his on-and-off girlfriend. The son was addicted to drugs at the time, and to stay on his good side, my father would give him money whenever he aske
d. Once, my father refused, and in the middle of the street, Mr. Collins’s son attacked him, punching and kicking him while my father refused to fight back. My brothers and sisters and I watched this scene with our mother through the screen door of our house. Afterward, and throughout my childhood, I was angry at my father for letting himself be so humiliated. I couldn’t imagine letting myself be dominated as he had, and it felt so humiliating to watch a man who I knew was powerful, physically and in terms of his personality, be beaten up in the middle of the street. I would have fought back, but my father didn’t, and I was angry at him for his restraint, which seemed like cowardice and fear at the time. For a long time I didn’t forgive him for it. But my anger was a childish anger. The kind of anger that is possible because I didn’t understand the world at that age. I was a child who felt like he had nothing to lose. When I brought the incident up with my father as an adult, he was surprised that I remembered and still cared about it. Explaining himself, he said he couldn’t have taken the chance of fighting back for two reasons. He didn’t want to hurt the man because he was Mr. Collins’s son, and Mr. Collins had been kind to us. And he didn’t want to fight back for fear that if the other man had a weapon and my father was killed, there would be no one to take care of us. Suffering a small humiliation under those circumstances was worthwhile. It was necessary. Soon after the fight, Mr. Collins’s son and his girlfriend moved out, and we lived in the house alone.
By then, I was already getting into trouble everywhere but especially at school. My first fight happened on the playground at Macculloch Elementary. From the beginning, kids made fun of my accent and clothes, but I didn’t care too much about that. It has always taken much more than insults to touch me. What touched me was being at recess, under a strange metal dome the kids would play under, and a kid who had been auditioning to be my bully for some time challenged me to a first-blood match. The first-blood match came from World Wrestling Entertainment (then the World Wrestling Federation), and the rules of the fight were simple: whoever bled first lost.
The fight had hardly begun before he grabbed my head and slammed it against the side of the metal dome. Blood gushed from my nose. I tried to argue that he hadn’t won because I got nosebleeds all the time, an inheritance from my father and grandfather. The other kids laughed, and the wannabe bully celebrated his victory. I was in such pain and filled with so much rage. Each drop of blood only made me angrier. As he was celebrating, I launched myself at him, and we fought until teachers separated us. We were taken to the principal’s office, and my father was called to the school. I was told to apologize but I refused. I had done nothing wrong, and I was still angry that I hadn’t hurt the kid even more. Thinking about it today, I still wish I would have slammed his head against the metal to let him feel the same pain I did.
A few more kids tried to play the role of my bully, and each attempt led to a fight. Those young days established a pattern between my father and me: I got in trouble, he was alerted, and then he punished me in the car and at home. First it was yelling, then it was hitting, and then the hits got harder and harder. Until I went to college, this was the main structure of our relationship.
Within that structure were still moments that reminded me of the relationship my father and I had before we moved to the States. Times when I looked at him as if he was the greatest man in the world. Once, he was called to my elementary school because a teacher claimed I had stolen a book from her class. I hadn’t. When he came into the class and pulled me up from my seat, I had my head down. Considering that stealing was one of the worst acts one could commit in our family, the accusation alone was a terrible shame, and I was dreading the punishment. After my father came and listened to the teacher, he asked me in Igbo if I had taken the book. I will never forget the intensity in his eyes. I told him I hadn’t. He asked me to be honest with him. I told him that I hadn’t stolen the book. He then took me by his side and told the teacher she was wrong. He told her our family didn’t steal and warned her to never accuse me of stealing and to not waste his time again.
Seeing Paris in the distance through the windows of Charles de Gaulle Airport when I was young planted the seed, but what fertilized the need to leave our home in Detroit was the feeling that I couldn’t survive there with my father. I never felt that I was alive in the same house as him. I couldn’t be anything but angry, and I was angry all of the time. Angry at him and at the horrible luck to be born to him, to have been someone like myself, where my existence was a crime I was punished for every day. After so many years of almost daily punishments, I realized the problem was simple, and the simplicity made any real solution impossible. I was the problem. Not particularly anything that I was doing. It was me as a person. Those two reasons—to see the world and to live—pushed me to leave our house whenever I had the chance, whether that was playing soccer—sometimes staying at my coach’s house until I had no choice but to go home—or taking a ten-hour Greyhound bus alone to see New York City. Each time I was able to leave helped me plot what I saw as my ultimate fight for freedom, the call for adventure that would mean I would leave that house on Clements Street and never return again. Many times when we fought, I would tell my father directly that he was only going to be able to get away with it for so long. When I could finally leave, I would leave forever. My escape would be final. I dreamed of it while being trapped with a father who hated me, and with siblings who had been taught to distance themselves from me. I was going to leave, and he and everyone else in the family would never see me again.
Each time I was punished—yelled at, hit with a hand, a shoe, a belt, or whatever object was close—I welcomed it. I knew that one day, I would escape and never see any of them again. I had seen Paris and was sure to see it again. On my own, as master of my own life. To steel myself while waiting for my new life in those years, I went deep into myself, so far into the labyrinth that no one could find me. Not my father, not anyone else.
I left our house and Detroit whenever I could afford to. In my first year of college at University of Detroit Mercy, I lived in the dorms, which were about ten minutes from the second house we moved into. I could have saved money by commuting, but there was no choice for me. When I was kicked out of that college—my disinterest in school hadn’t changed—I went to Wayne State University, which was twenty minutes away. I stayed in the dorms there as well. Soon the grades and the withdrawals that resulted from my poor attendance led to the scholarship money drying up. Soon I found myself back home. I didn’t care about failing my classes, but because of that smaller failure, I had failed myself.
Thankfully, I had a car at the time. In Detroit, having a car is how one comes into being—an extreme version of the grand American story. Through my car, I existed. I could experience the world around me and leave home whenever I wanted. I drove everywhere all the time. I stayed out until late at night, and sometimes I sat in the car in parking lots alone rather than go back to our house. When I got home, I would often sit in the driveway for hours, waiting for the last moment possible to go inside. Sometimes my father took away my keys as punishment, so I would take the bus and taxis to get around. I had friends pick me up, and a few times, I walked wherever I had to go. Walking always scared my mother, considering how dangerous Detroit was at that time, but that risk was worth it to the young me.
My mother sometimes teases me now that the escape I wanted so badly, that I dreamed about and suffered for, never came. She jokes that the child who wanted to leave the most is the one who ended up staying behind. Part of why I never left was because being such a black sheep put me at a disadvantage in the world outside of college. I won’t condemn myself for how much of the college experience I wasted, because back then, I was so angry I was being forced to go through that path, which I had such a deep disdain for that I couldn’t force myself to simply do the bare minimum to get through it. In those years, I was saying no by refusing to go through the performance of it all. But there is some shame now in knowing that if I could have simply done a bit more, then I could have had the freedom I wanted earlier.
