The bar might be in hell

I was reading about ordinary life recently. Not history history. Just people. The boring parts. How they married. How they raised children. How friendships lasted. The things nobody writes movies about because they're too ordinary.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, I started laughing. Not because life back then was better. I'm sure it wasn't. Every generation gets its own premium package of problems. It was because I kept stumbling on things that used to be normal and reading them like plot twists.

People stayed married. Neighbours knew your name. Friendships somehow survived not speaking every day.

Imagine.

Mind you, I am very much part of these issues. This is probably rage bait. A report card for how well we the destroyers of societal morals have done so far.

Somewhere between then and now, the bar fell. Nobody announced it. One day we all just looked down and thought, “Fair enough.”

Now everything feels negotiable. Love is negotiable. Friendships, negotiable. Showing up is negotiable. Replying to messages? That's practically an act of charity.

We've become very good at almost. Almost committing. Almost calling. Almost visiting. It's like we're all permanently buffering.

Situationships, whoever came up with it is just great. It's a relationship that refuses to admit it's a relationship.

Like somebody filled out all the forms but refused to sign at the bottom.

“We're just seeing where it goes.” Fair enough.

But it's been going for nine months now. At this point it should've arrived somewhere.

I understand why, though. Love has become expensive. Not financially. Emotionally.

Everybody knows somebody who gave everything they had to one person and got a motivational quote in return. So now we negotiate with our hearts. No labels. No expectations. No pressure. If anything goes wrong, everybody can pretend nobody was really there. The bar quietly moves again.

And friendship. Friendship is interesting.

I miss when friends just existed. Nobody had to schedule a phone call three weeks in advance. You'd knock on someone's gate. If they were home, fantastic. If they weren't, you came back later. Simple.

Now I sometimes have to text people before I call them. To ask if I can call them. To ask if they're free to answer the call I'm asking permission to make. Communication has somehow developed a prequel.

Then there's social media. I have a complicated relationship with it because, honestly, I enjoy it. I've laughed too much online to become one of those “delete Instagram and go outside” people. Besides, half of us met genuinely wonderful people because of the internet.

The internet isn't the villain. It's just loud.

Everybody is performing a version of themselves. Some are performing not caring. The funny thing about performing not caring is that it usually requires an audience.

Whatever happened to just being quiet?

The phone itself is a miracle. A ridiculous miracle. I can transfer money while standing in traffic. Watch a football match from another continent. Order food. Read a book. Argue with strangers about whether jollof should have green peas (I still think it shouldn't).

If you explained smartphones to someone in 1987, they'd assume you were either a prophet or a scammer.

But most miracles ask for something in return. This one asked for our attention. Every app believes it's the main character. Every notification believes it deserves urgency. Every vibration says, “Look at me.”

No wonder silence feels unfamiliar now.

We've outsourced boredom. And I think boredom was doing more work than we gave it credit for. Bored people started hobbies. Bored people learnt instruments. Bored people stared out of windows long enough to have ideas. Now boredom lasts about six seconds before somebody sends you a reel.

I also think we've become strangely afraid of looking eager. Nobody wants to reply too quickly. Nobody wants to text first. Nobody wants to say, “I miss you.” Everybody wants to be desired. Nobody wants to look like they're doing the desiring.

It's a strange game. One where everybody loses by trying not to lose.

Maybe that's why “nonchalant” became a compliment. Imagine telling our grandparents you met somebody wonderful but you're intentionally acting uninterested. They'd probably ask if you were feeling alright.

The funny thing is, I don't think we're becoming colder. I think we're becoming more careful.

There's a difference.

Careful people double-check doors before sleeping. Careful people save receipts. Careful people don't jump into deep water. Somewhere along the line we started treating love the same way. We wear emotional helmets, reflective jackets.

Which makes sense. Life has a way of teaching caution.

But it also means some of us haven't felt the wind in years.

Especially here. We're Nigerians. We've made an art form out of adjusting. Power goes out? We adjust. Fuel price goes up? We adjust. Rain starts in the middle of traffic? We adjust. Somebody says, “I'm five minutes away,” and they've just entered the bathroom? We somehow adjust.

It's one of our greatest strengths. It's also why we have to be careful. Because if you adjust long enough, you stop asking whether something is good. You only ask whether it's normal.

Those aren't the same thing. Common isn't the same as normal. It never was.

Anyways please listen to me.

Maybe nothing changes after this. Maybe we all wake up tomorrow and continue buffering through life. Or maybe one person replies to the message they've been leaving unopened. Maybe someone visits instead of saying, “We should link up soon.” Maybe someone says exactly what they mean instead of hoping the other person guesses.

Small things. That's usually how life changes anyway. Not all at once. Just one ordinary decision at a time.

The bar might be in hell. I still believe that.

But maybe it doesn't get raised by grand speeches or perfect people. Maybe it comes back up every time someone chooses sincerity over strategy. Every time someone stays. Every time someone forgives. Every time someone loves without trying to look cool while doing it.

I'm probably overthinking it.

Goodnight. Or good morning. Whichever one finds you first.