The Long Headache

By Michael Egbejumi-David

This is about betrayals - and counter betrayals, and heartbreaks. It is about a doctor, Mark, whose life took a downward spiral following the end of his marriage. His choices and lifestyle conspired to make his life one long headache. Those choices led to dire consequences. Ultimately Mark decided to retrace his steps; work his way backwards. He found himself at the start-line where it all began for him. Unfortunately, that too proved another headache.

Written in biting humour, sassy and snappy wit, the story weaves through modern life & living, friendships & betrayals, personal convictions & doubts, human foibles and fallibility, and their inevitable stark cost!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728356488

Michael Egbejumi-David

This is my second book. The first, “The Final Come Down Came,” was published in 2010 by AuthorHouse. I prefer to write light entertainment reads; using humour to explore complex relationships and societal foibles. My own background is Medicine. I began writing as a hobby. My two drivers are that I’ve got stories to tell, and have my own style of telling them. A former resident of Lagos, Warri, Brazil, New York and the UK, I am currently based in Abuja.

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© 2020 Michael Egbejumi-David. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse    08/19/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5649-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-5648-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Love and Sex, adapted from Rita Lee. © 2003

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses

or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

For Dad, my true hero. Only Mandela comes close.

And for Shola (Jo).

PROLOGUE

T ime moves like an old crab on crutches as I get off the old elevator on my old floor. I have the keys to the one-bedroom apartment. I marvel at how easily the key turns the lock. I let myself in. It is early evening, just a few minutes past 7:30. There is no one in the living room. I take a quick look around. The place looks different from how I remember it. It is airier. Brighter.

I put my bottle of vintage Penfolds Grange cabernet sauvignon and the box of buttered crumbles from Harrods, on the coffee table.

There is faint light coming from the direction of the bedroom. I go that way. The door is ajar. I push gently on it and walk through.

Lordy Lord!

What a sight for truly sore eyes!

Lara is on the floor. She is doing things to a white man who is propped up on his hands and knees. They are both as naked as dust. A small gasp escapes my already open mouth. They hear me, turn their heads, and see me just about the same time.

Lara shrieks, jumps up, and dashes into the bathroom. The white man tries to do the same but can’t. He is handcuffed to the foot of the bed.

I can’t move either. Shock has me rooted to the spot. Lara and another man? A Caucasian? Another man!

After a short spell, Lara returns to the bedroom. A red satin robe barely covers her. She has on her face an expression I know I can never adequately describe. She just stands there, she says nothing. I say nothing either. It gets so quiet you can hear a mosquito sneeze. I can also hear the blood pumping in my ears. My entire body is catching on fire. Smoke rising from my skin. My palms as wet as rain.

The chap on all fours breaks the silence with a cough. A rattling, watery cough. Lungs filled with nicotine and old fluids. A sure candidate for pneumonia.

Still, nobody moves. Nobody speaks. Awkwardness marches into the room wearing Gestapo boots.

Finally, I turn on my heels. I bump my head against the door frame. I become even more dazed as I stalk back into the living room. Lara follows me. I have enough presence of mind to retrieve my bottle of red wine and the buttered crumbles. I take another look at Lara, shake my head a couple of times, and walk out of the apartment. I slam the front door hard enough to give the roaches in the entire building short-term memory loss.

I take the elevator back down to street level, get in my car, and drive off towards my hotel in Lower Manhattan.

ONE

T he heat from the morning sun massaged my face. It felt like God was giving me a cuddle. It was so nice I turned around to get some of that goodness down the back of my neck too.

I was standing on the balcony of my home in Maryland. I inherited the house from my father. It was late summer. I had arrived Lagos from New York, via Paris, very late the day before. That was the way I liked to travel, especially when I visited Lagos. In Lagos, by late evening, most of the airport touts have melted away, and the Customs officers have run out of energy or have full pockets. You are waved through Arrival formalities without too many hassles, and the journey into town is devoid of the usual traffic. The best part is that I get into the house without being noticed by too many people. The neighbourhood wakes in the morning and finds me lounging about the place like a well-fed, colourful iguana.

Around 10:00 a.m., I had a nice breakfast of Togolese beans and bread. I took a second cold shower after that delicious meal; the heat, uninvited, had joined me for breakfast. Then I waited to meet up with my boy, Jude. He had called me on cue the previous night. After exchanging pleasantries, we arranged that he would come pick me up at 1:00 p.m. today and take me to hang out with some friends and associates. We would formally declare my summer vacation in Lagos underway with the usual rah-rah, generous alcohol, and suitable female company.

But by 4:30 p.m. there was no sign of Jude. I called his two mobile numbers for the umpteenth time but couldn’t reach him. I changed into light-green Bermuda shorts, pastel T-shirt, and tan leather sandals and went downstairs. On my way out, I left instructions with the gateman in case Jude turned up. Then I walked down the road to my local bukateria.

This particular buka had no name; old-timers simply called it Mama Ade’s. The eatery had been in that spot for as long as I could remember. Ade herself had grown up and graduated from university, and was living in faraway Saudi Arabia with her petroleum engineer husband.

I noticed right away that some improvements had been made since my last visit there. A new coat of paint—dull green and agile white—adorned the buka’s wooden exterior. A curtain made of cheap blue satin guarded its entrance.

I walked inside, moving past a giant blue water drum sitting on a long rickety bench just by the door.

The first thing I saw was a beautiful lady, she was on her feet, beckoning for the waitress. She was about five feet seven and had a body for which Venus de Milo would have traded her upper arm. She wore white linen trousers and a sleeveless yellow t-shirt. Tiny braids hung just past her shoulders and framed a very pretty face that wore little makeup. Her black skin glowed. More significantly, she possessed my one Kryptonite: a big round bum like most Yoruba women are inclined to possess. She was sweating slightly, had been working her way through a molehill of food.

I was impressed.

She saw me staring and smiled. She even had the nerve to have dimples. A smile is the shortest distance between two people. I smiled back at her, went to her table and without waiting for an invitation immediately sat across from her.

Hi there. Good afternoon and how are you?

Oh, I’m doing great, was her confident response.

Her voice was sonorous. Fantastic Cockney accent. I tried to stop staring at her so openly but I couldn’t help myself.

What? she asked, her tone challenging.

I waved an apology. Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry… I mean, you’re so beautiful…

Oh, you think so, huh?

No… I mean… yes. Yes, of course. You are extremely beautiful.

Well, I thank you. But I’m sure you’ve not come in here to tell me that. She smiled again, lighting up the entire dinky buka.

I smiled self-consciously and looked around the rest of the joint. The buka was not big. It held four small tables with two chairs each. Two more long tables with benches sat on opposite sides of the room. All the tables had blue patterned plastic covers on them. A couple of industrial-strength fans stood on each end of the room moving hot air around. A small door with strips of multi-coloured plastic curtain led to the kitchen and serving area. There were no menu cards and no menu board. The glare of sunshine through the open window was fierce. The puttering sound of a small petrol-powered electric generator outside forced people to talk in loud voices.

A teenage waitress—another of Mama Ade’s daughters—brought the lady across from whom I sat more soup in a small plate. I asked for amala and ewedu soup as well. While the lady took a sip from a large bottle of water she had with her, I ordered palm wine.

My food arrived, and I began to eat. In between swallows, the lady and I would exchange little glances and smiles. Finally, I asked, So, what is your name?

It was starting to look like you’d never ask. I’m Lara.

Lara, I intoned. Gosh, even your name is pretty.

She laughed, a delicate, delightful sound. What’s yours?

Mark. Mark Otite.

Well, nice to meet you, Mr Mark Otite. Do you come here often?

It’s Dr Otite, actually, I said, and immediately felt foolish.

"Oh, okay… doctor. Do you come here often?"

Ah, no. Only about half a dozen times every couple of years or so when I’m here on holidays.

"That’s all? From where have you come?

New York.

Hmm…and are you a doctor of medicine or a doctor of philosophy?

Well, I’m a medical doctor, but I’ve been known to delve into the philosophical realm of things quite often.

Oh, really? Lara said, and her eyes shone with interest. Okay, amaze me. Say something existential and deep."

Well, I don’t like to show off. Plus I don’t know you that well.

She laughed, and that caused me to laugh too.

Lara finished eating her food. She signalled to the waitress to bring her a bowl of water to wash her hand. After she did this, the waitress cleared her plates away and she went to pay for her food. I had expected that she would return to our table but she only pointed in my direction, waved goodbye, and walked out the door.

I leapt out of my seat and ran after her. When I got outside, she was standing just to the right of the door, the most mischievous grin on her face.

I knew you’d come. What took you so long, she teased with a small laugh.

I laughed too. Ah, you’re so wicked. You just wanted to disappear like that? What if I never see you again?

Then your life would carry on as it has, but it would be less rich than it could have been.

Yes, it would, I agreed. It certainly might not be as electric and as stimulating as it has been the past few minutes.

Hmmn, Dr Otite, you sure do know what to say to make a girl feel good.

Please, please, call me Mark. I really feel like a dunderhead for mentioning my professional title back there. That was obnoxious and totally out of order. Please, forgive me. I’m sorry.

Okay, I forgive you, she said with a smile.

There followed an awkward moment on my part. I didn’t quite know what to do or say next.

Lara, smiling, nodded towards my right hand and said, Your hand is getting dry. You cannot take down my number with amala and soup all over your fingers—unless of course you’re left-handed, but that is very unlikely as we can clearly see.

I laughed again and shook my head in amazement. Are you always like this?

Like how? She responded, feigning innocence.

All I could do was laugh some more. I searched out her eyes and held her gaze.

While I was deciding whether to go back into the buka to wash my hand or to just reach into my pocket and hand her my mobile phone so she could tap her number into it, I saw Jude bouncing down the road towards us. He was wearing blue jeans, blue Nike cross-trainers, a blue basketball shirt that was too large and too long, a light denim jacket, and a Kangol hat.

Jude gave Lara a quick once-over, walked up to me, clasped my outstretched left hand, and embraced me.

Mark, Mark! Why didn’t you wait for me? He shouted in my ear.

Look, forget all that for now, I said to him. This here is Lara, my new friend. Stay here with her while I go wash my hand. If she’s gone by the time I come back out, you’re dead.

What’s his problem? Jude asked a laughing Lara as I made my way back inside the buka. I ignored the remainder of my meal and asked for water to wash my hand. Then I settled my bill, leaving a generous tip.

By the time I got back outside, Lara was gone. Jude stood there with an impish smile on his face, waving a piece of paper in one hand, a ghettofied Chamberlain.

Dude, I got her digits for you, he announced with pride, his voice still too loud.

You’d better have, or our friendship is over. Did I not tell you not to let her leave?

You’re welcome, Yankee man.

What useless ‘You’re welcome’ is that? I huffed. You can’t keep a lady company and make her wait for a few minutes?

What, you think I’m going to kidnap somebody for you? Let’s go inside and eat some food, he said and tried to propel me back inside the buka.

I just finished eating, man. Please give me the number so I can call the babe.

She just gave you her digits. You’ve got to wait for some time, at least a couple of days, before you call her, man. Don’t you know anything, Yankee man?

Look, let’s go back to the house, Jude. By the way, is this your one o’clock?

Sorry for being late, man. You know how it is, was all he said.

No, I don’t know how it is. But, tell me something, Jude. Are you not feeling uncomfortable in this heat, I mean with all these clothes you’ve got on?

Nope.

Anyway, damn, dude, you’re shining like the sun. You look like a million bucks.

And I feel like it too, he responded with a wide grin.

I eyed him with suspicion as we walked back towards the house. Uh-oh, whom have you scammed now?

Scammed? Forget you! he said and grabbed my neck playfully.

I’ve known Jude since childhood. He looked like the most harmless guy in the world, but he’d con his own mother out of her last days on earth if he thought they’d benefit him in some way. He lived a very colourful lifestyle. He knew something about everything and was always able to make a connection possible here, there and everywhere else. He made things happen.

Where I was exactly six feet tall and dark complexioned with a slim build, Jude was five feet six inches tall on a very good day. He was fair-skinned, with an even more slight build. He wore only the latest top of the range designer clothes, most of which were at least a couple of sizes too big for him. But that was how he liked them. He preferred his women that way too: the bigger they were, the better he liked them. Jude was half Igbo, half Yoruba, but he spoke better Hausa than most people I knew. He also had more 419 practitioners and con men on the paternal side of his family than the moon has craters. Nevertheless, he was my friend.

We talked and teased each other until we got to my house. A Mercedes Benz saloon car—those old rejects that both the Germans and Belgians didn’t want any more—was parked in front of the house in a haphazard fashion, blocking the entrance to the house. I wanted to tell Jude to re-park his car but I decided against it. Inside, I gave Jude a gift bag containing size eight black Adidas trainers and a bottle of Courvoisier cognac.

Hey, Ol’ boy! he yelled. Now that’s what I’m talking about!

So, what have you been up to, Jude? Why didn’t you turn up at the time you said you would?

You know how it is, he responded again.

"No, I don’t know how it is. All I know is that you always turn up late for everything.

Slept late, man.

You might want to try sleeping early. What were you doing up late?

Forget all that. Who was that fine babe with you at the buka?

Her name is Lara. I just met her and I can tell you that the babe was fully feeling me.

Yeah, it looked that way. Although, for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.

Later for you, Jude, I said and we both fell into prolonged laughter.

We carried on talking. Jude filled me in on what had been happening since my last visit. Mostly, he talked about himself and his women. At about 6:00 p.m., we left in his car and drove to his house in Surulere. He lived in one of his parents’ houses on Lawanson Street. There, a few of the guys and girls with whom I grew up had converged. We ate and drank, talked politics, sports, and the music scene as the evening wore on.

I was back at home at about 11:00 p.m. The whole place was in darkness. No light. I went upstairs and had a bath. Then I settled in bed and dialled Lara’s phone number.

She was awake and we talked far into the night. Lara was a Yoruba girl from Lagos. She grew up in the UK but relocated to the USA in her late twenties. Like me, she was in Nigeria for the summer break. She had gone to America for a post-graduate degree in Physiology. At the end of her course, she decided to take permanent residency there. She lived in Minnesota! I didn’t think Black folks lived in Minnesota, except for the diminutive musician, Prince.

We became fast friends and were inseparable for the remainder of the holiday. Jude was jealous and a little put off that I was spending most of my time with Lara. However, it was one of the best holidays I ever had in Lagos.

Lara was mostly based in Ikoyi with her parents. She had come to visit an aunt in Maryland the day I ran into her. Her brother and sister, both older than her, still lived in London. Her father was a Magistrate and her mother ran a nursery and primary school in Ikoyi, very close to the chic hangout, Potters Lounge. Her parents were friendly and quite accommodating towards me, although her father would tacitly grill me every chance he got.

Lara showed me the other Lagos which, until then, was largely unknown to me - the staid, society side. In the short time we spent together there, I met a few judges, professors, politicians, and a writer. I also met a Bishop. Lara’s family was of the Anglican faith.

Three weeks after we met, Lara returned to Minnesota and I to New York. Even though we exchanged contact details before we left Nigeria, I honestly thought that was the end of it; a nice little summer romance. However, Lara rang me barely a week after I arrived New York. Soon enough, we established a routine: we would talk on the phone for hours. She’d laugh at my corny jokes. We exchanged emails regularly. I’d write her poems and long letters. She loved those.

I continued with my life in New York, living as I always did. I dated and socialised with other women. Nevertheless, things were getting serious between Lara and me and we had started to talk about visiting each other.

TWO

O ne Sunday morning, I was at home in my apartment block on Fort Green Street in downtown Brooklyn, down the road from Spike Lee’s 40 Acres And A Mule store, and, not very far, in the opposite direction, from Junior’s, a restaurant known for its cheesecakes.

Keeping me company was a good friend of mine, Michelle. Michelle used to be a secretary at St Vincent’s, the hospital where I worked but she left because she claimed the work was too much. Some African-Americans are funny like that – want to get paid but are allergic to hard work. Michelle was something else: no hips, all ass. Very feminine. Beautiful, with an ugly attitude. She loved attention the way Judas loved coins. She fancied herself my future wife. I knew that would never happen, but I wasn’t going to tell her that just then.

Michelle was doing her best to keep a brother warm on a cold winter morning when my doorbell rang. I ignored it. Er … I wasn’t in any position to be getting up and answering any doorbells. But the doggone bell kept on ringing. Eventually, and regrettably, I eased Michelle off me, got up and carefully peered through the window blind.

Lara!

I got dressed quickly and told Michelle to do the same.

Why? she queried.

Er…I think I’ve got a visitor.

So? Tell him to come back later. It’s entirely too cold to be visiting anybody any damn way, she snapped then flopped onto her stomach and pulled my duvet over her smooth back.

I scratched the side of my head.

It’s an out-of-state visitor?

Out of state? What state?

Michelle, does it matter? Please get up and get dressed. We’ve…you’ve got to leave. I’ll call you later and explain every___

Leave? You must be out of your mind. I ain’t going nowhere in this cold. You can have your little out of town visitor in the sitting room. You African boys always crack me up…leave!" she snorted. And bring me some grape juice. She settled even more comfortably on the bed.

I got down on both knees and began, Michelle, please…

I pleaded with Michelle to put her clothes back on and to leave my apartment building through the back door. It took some doing, but Michelle finally left—through the front door. That was the last time I saw her. I straightened out the apartment as best I could and let Lara in.

Eight months later, Lara moved in with me. In another five months, specifically, on a Valentine’s Day, we stood before a judge in a New York City Registry, and became man and wife. I flew-in my boy, Jude. He was the only one who stood as witness for us that day, although he seemed grumpy throughout. Lara’s parents never really forgave me for the type of wedding we had.

Lara and I lived as husband and wife for another four years. Before Lara, my life had been edgy. But not after marriage. I was so in love; I built my life around my wife. I thought of her first thing after I woke up even if she was lying right there beside me. Every day, I called her while I was at work. I put down the down-payment on her car. I learned to cook for her. I took salsa lessons because of her. Her friends became my friends.

Four years into our marriage, no kids. Lara wanted to complete a Doctorate first and I gladly took on the payment of