Tiwa Adejuyigbe

It's certainly important to dream big. Many of our greatest innovations exist not because certain people saw what others couldn't, but ultimately pursued bold and daring ideas with high conviction. You would feel on top of the world too if a big bet paid off, made you millions, and changed how entire industries operate. Anyone would feel on top of the world especially if the big bet paid off despite others doubting you. However, pioneers were previously deemed visionaries only after achieving success. As a result, there were fewer visionaries, and thankfully fewer thought leaders on podcasts without a leg to stand on.

Today, we're experiencing technological innovations of an unprecedented nature. Most notably, the cost of building products – financially and otherwise – has decreased massively, and we're seeing a rise in competition across multiple sectors. In the same way there are thousands of products being launched each month, there are hundreds of thousands of founders emerging out there. It's easier than ever to start a company, but building products isn't enough anymore to stand out. So, now we have more and more self-proclaimed visionaries than ever, either over-dramatising aspects of startup culture and/or simply regurgitating dictums by industry veterans – or attempting to debunk them for the sake of engagement, i.e. 'ragebaiting'. Perhaps the real artificial intelligence we should be worried about already exists on tech Twitter.

There's nothing inherently wrong with thought leadership, but when it primarily serves to validate the pursuit of ego over impact, we're creating a dangerous template for the next generation. This isn't new either – for the longest while, this idealised archetype has involved grandiose thinking, inflated sense of special destiny, and godlike power excused as necessary quirks of visionary leadership. Oftentimes, these are revealed to be nothing more than a facade, masking fragile egos that have somehow amassed outsized influence.

However, unlike other industries where unchecked hubris might only affect a company, technology's unprecedented reach means ego-driven founders can affect billions of lives across healthcare, education, journalism, and beyond. The same personality traits that might be harmless (or even helpful) in building a photo-sharing app become concerning when applied to reshaping democracy or developing artificial intelligence.

I heard that saying for the first time just months following my elementary school graduation. At the time, I understood it as nothing more than a poignant observation about how time and circumstances naturally separate even the closest bonds. My friends and I had branched out to different schools across the country, many of those bonds would not remain the same, and we would inevitably each form new ones. In many ways, I no longer resonate with the proverb.

If you've been following these essays, you might've noticed a thematic interest in how language shapes thought. In this case, I believe the specific juxtaposition of 'children' and 'play' does more than just mark time's passage, but also reinforces the disparity in age/wisdom – perhaps to trivialise the nature of child-like companionship compared to the 'adult-style' social bonding.

While I appreciate Yoruba philosophy's staunch realism, I find myself questioning the absence of a counter-narrative to this seemingly hyperbolic adage. Yes, twenty children cannot play together for twenty years – I understood this even as a child. But perhaps the more interesting question is whether a handful of connections, carefully chosen and deliberately maintained, can defy the proverb's implied inevitability.

Many of my friends are also from Lagos, Nigeria, but are scattered across the world. However, this dispersion only amplifies the difficulties in nurturing friendships. Hence, this paradigm is extremely intriguing on a personal level – more so considering the timely festive season where many of us return home. Despite my friends and I being dispersed across different countries over the years, I am glad to still have friendships spanning 5, 10, and even 20 years. I am therefore able to provide some firsthand perspective.

I believe all adult relationships are fundamentally rooted in choice: we actively choose to begin, maintain, or terminate relationships. Regarding relational endings, these typically stem from either situational or personal changes. I believe this best aligns with Derek Parfit's 'Relation R,' which argues that psychological continuity and connectedness supersede personal identity as determinants of lasting relationships. When applied to friendship, particularly in the context of the diaspora, this framework illustrates why maintaining long-term connections is so complex. It's not necessarily about staying in touch, but about maintaining connection with someone who, like you, is constantly evolving under vastly different influences.

As explored in one of my earlier essays, today's social media platforms are content vehicles for consumption instead of network ecosystems for connection-building. Instagram, for example, is particularly sticky: most people use it daily, but not to see their friends anymore. Instead, our friends' story updates compete with brand ads and influencer posts for our dwindling attention. Alternatively, seeing 'friends' daily in real-life school or university settings was different: it was just us & them. Now, the dominance of social platforms has degraded the friend-friend paradigm to mulch.

This shift has also created a peculiar paradox in how we maintain relationships beyond the digital sphere. Social media promises constant connection but delivers something more insidious: an environment characterised by endless identity performances which prevent authentic and tangible connection.

The result? A striking irony where we possess extensive means for connection, yet meaningful connection feels increasingly elusive. The ease of maintaining surface-level digital connections has paradoxically raised the activation energy required for deeper engagement. From doomscrolling short-form content to the proliferation of hookup culture, we've become accustomed to treating things as consumable rather than preservable. Our relationships increasingly mirror our consumption patterns – quick, disposable, and optimised for hedonistic pursuits rather than lasting value. Perhaps this is another feature of late-stage capitalism manifesting in our social dynamics. Who knows?

I suppose it's only natural to resist accepting potentially harsh truths, especially when the outcome isn't involuntary. But I fail to understand how we've elevated this into virtue by rationalising distance over effort, independence over interdependence, and loss over preservation. On one level, I suppose there's no benefit in deeply valuing something that society no longer seems to. But in an ever-changing world—politically, socially, and technologically—the one thing you want to be able to count on is each other.

Assuming these succeed —and they likely will as emails are a burden— the obvious next step is more tools to make writing even 'easier'. We're already seeing many of these for various 'formal' use cases, but I expect we'll see more tools for autonomous daily use. Consider a text-messaging tool which has been trained on your personality, writing style and relational context. Or a speech-to-text tool which turns your messy thoughts into clearer thoughts for your daily journalling. On the surface, tools like these would likely be helpful and save time. But, I worry we'll simply find ourselves writing less and less for ourselves and each other.

The reason we may write less is not because of these new tools. Instead, these tools have emerged from a perception of daily writing as burdensome or laborious. I think we'll write less in general, and there's enough to indicate we'll use brain-computer interfaces in many daily tasks over the next two decades. Of course, the rate at which this occurs depends on the technology itself. As it stands, I believe we neither enjoy nor appreciate a) the process of writing and b) written text itself enough. If enough of us cease to write, we would eventually evolve past the need for it, possibly leading to a relaxation of selective pressure on humans to fulfil the need for written communication. Should this occur, I don't believe we will completely forgo writing over time, nor will we risk the evolutionary regression or cognitive atrophy which would occur as a result. Instead, we will likely 'write' with more advanced means.

My concern essentially involves the dichotomy between generated text and written text; we use both on a daily basis. The former implies I/O processes: email responses, meeting notes, to-do lists, etc. These are systematic processes which prioritise precision, accuracy and efficiency. It's easy to see why these are the first wave of productivity tools. Written text, on the other hand, requires a level of cognition. We use these often when required to think about what we're writing: tweets, DMs, journaling. Written text requires creativity, personality, and an ineffable sense of 'humanness'. It's also easy to see why these aren't as easy to automate compared to the others.

There is something extremely agentic and intentional about consciously written text. We appreciate consciously written text because we possess consciousness, and therefore can fathom the inner workings required to produce such text. To Kill A Mockingbird is a classic because of Harper Lee's experiences in the racially segregated South. Things Fall Apart would not have been the same without Chinua Achebe's experiences with cultural conflict in colonial Nigeria. Frankly, it's the same with most art forms: there are entire disciplines dedicated to interpreting the consciousness displayed in film, text, visual art, etc. Beyond art forms and communicative mediums, writing has played an integral role in our anthropological evolution: the documentation of religious texts, important historical events, scientific discoveries, and so on.

There is a strong relationship between consciousness, agency, and freedom. We're simply in the earliest stages of astronomical technological advancements, and while I'm eager, I think it's important we retain those three core elements. I simply believe writing is a fairly unadorned way to do so.

This writing needn't be overly serious or formal, but I believe writing effortlessly is one way to write more. I've often likened Twitter—and I suppose now Bluesky—to J.S. Mill's marketplace of ideas, and I suppose that's one way to maintain agentic writing. In my experience, I write more— and hopefully better—about things which feel natural. The more we enjoy it, the more we'll do it. It's pretty important we begin enjoying it in order to preserve its quality.

I implore you to write something slightly different each week. For instance, yesterday I wrote a mini script of The Office: Nigeria. Next week, I may possibly write my first thread on Twitter. Who knows? Either way, the freedom to consciously express my own thoughts and exercise my agency is not one I take for granted, and not one any of us should.

Writing is an extremely cognitive process, and we'll still require degrees of cognition in the future — whether for prompt engineering with chatbots or text conversion with neural implants (a stretch). LLMs have fundamentally reshaped how we process and interact with information, and we're still in the early days. It's extremely necessary for us to see writing as agency and therefore begin writing with agency. Writing regularly, whether it's fiction, social media, or personal reflections, helps us retain our distinctly human ability to demonstrate our consciousness with words. And in every moment of writing, we affirm a fundamental truth: to write is to choose.

Therefore, it makes sense that Afrobeats follows suit within the ongoing globalisation of Nigerian culture. Although this increased exposure should be a good thing, I remain sceptical. Our artists are more able than ever to achieve market-fit due to this increased recognition, playing a critical role in cementing our positioning as the 'cool kids' of Africa. However, it is worth noting that this rapid growth was not serendipitous or purely random.

For the longest time, the core lever for Afrobeats' commercialisation has been through features and collaborations with other artists. On the surface, it's a seemingly innocent 'quid pro quo' which promises growth for both parties. Instead, I feel it's been an exploitative dynamic akin to the resource extraction observed in former colonial states. We could discuss the symbolism of Wizkid's 'collaboration' with Drake on One Dance, where his voice can barely be heard. Or, perhaps Beyoncé's The Gift which featured primarily Afrobeats artists and yet conveniently included no African countries on the tour.

One could argue that the tables seem to have turned, as we now see many Afrobeats artists featuring foreign artists on their own projects. Case in point: global acts like Justin Bieber, Nicki Minaj, and Chris Brown have been featured on multiple Afrobeats projects over the last 5 years. I believe the initial quid pro quo stands, but we falsely believe we're in the driver's seat. Afrobeats is trendy, and this time it conveniently benefits the foreign (primarily American) artists to be featured within the genre, instead of vice versa.

I am not as concerned about all aspects of Nigerian culture losing their authenticity. In many cases, some degree of cultural synthesis can be beneficial. Nollywood, for example, could benefit from raising its standard to match the production quality of its counterparts. Likewise, I've long dreamt of Nigerian-fusion dishes which are finally becoming possible through increased exposure. However, I am primarily skeptical regarding the influence of cultural convergence with Afrobeats due to the propensity for its assetization.

Assetization is a key aspect of technoscientific capitalism wherein non-financial mediums are transformed into financial assets which allow for investments and subsequent returns. Therefore, the newly converted asset becomes a mechanism which can be controlled, traded, and capitalised through the revenue stream.

Many art forms have been commodified for centuries, and music is no different. However, music has become easier to both commodify and assetize due to its low barrier to entry for consumption and increased accessibility through digital streaming services. We've seen this happen through increased vehicles for investment within the music industry, primarily through the artists' catalogues and royalties. Over time, the artists' output becomes the means for rent extraction, both in the short- and long-run.

My concerns regarding Afrobeats deepen with the influx of labels such as UMG, Atlantic, DefJam and Warner Music which have all signed, partnered with, or acquired Nigerian record labels or artists. Given Afrobeats' growing global popularity, and Africa's increasing recognition as an emerging market in terms of technology and culture, I wouldn't be surprised to see artists like Rema or Burna Boy sell their catalogues over the next 7-10 years.

This isn't inherently problematic, as the process is voluntary and requires artists' consent and the artists stand a chance to benefit. However, this is especially significant given our colonial history riddled with exploitation and control. For many of our artists, global success represents far more than growth, but the shattering of barriers and the creation of pathways for future stars. It signals a bold representation of our country, despite its tumultuous past and seemingly bleak future. Even though Fela partnered with labels such as EMI and MCA, he would be rolling in his grave if he saw our artists signing away ownership of their catalogs. I'm aware this hasn't happened yet, but it looms on the horizon–is Afrobeats yet another resource to be extracted, or even worse, appropriated?

Altering our sound for mass appeal is bittersweet in itself, but signing away ownership of our music raises profound questions about who truly owns our culture. While the financial incentives are evident and enticing, the artists are obliged to hold onto what we can still call ours. We must remember that this isn't a level playing field, and the rules which apply to our global counterparts carry different implications for us. Lest we forget, these were our literal masters less than a century ago, and the word means something very different to our people. The word carries a weight of history that we cannot ignore.

Earlier this year, I began examining whether the word 'suicide' influenced its stigma. It stems from the Latin suicidium (sui - "of oneself" and caedere - "to kill") and replaced the far more accusatory 'self-murder.' The term 'suicide' had become established in the English language by the mid-18th century, resonating with earlier terms like suicist and suicism which were rooted in notions of selfishness—a prejudice that persists today.

Today, the term 'suicide' has false associations of despair and futility and failure with ending one's life. The stigma is unsurprising considering how the '-cide' suffix in suicide ostensibly aligns with words like homicide, infanticide, and genocide, which all denote murder rather than mere death.

Catherine Ruff provides some useful perspectives on individuals who ended their lives during the Stoic era. At first glance, Stoicism appears at odds with suicide through its teachings of resilience, dignified endurance of hardships, and apatheia. Yet, Zeno, the founder of Stoicism, strangled himself to death. Similarly, historical literature has depicted self-inflicted deaths without stigma, and in some instances, as acts of heroism: from biblical Saul to Shakespeare's Ophelia. Similarly, Cato the Younger, Socrates, Brutus, Cassius, and Mark Antony's deaths were viewed as acts of martyrdom.

It's worth asking what has since changed and why. I believe it's for two reasons.

On one level, I suppose the moral condemnation intensified with the rise of Christianity and other Abrahamic religions. By framing life as sacred and suffering as redemptive, taking one's own life became (viewed) not just a personal tragedy, but as a spiritual transgression. Given the church's historical influence over laws, this theological judgment filtered into law and culture, where those who ended their lives were posthumously shamed. Why? The act was stripped of its context and meaning, flattened into a symbol of weakness or wrongdoing. This significant—and arguably regressive—shift likely emerged through a semantic narrowing, where a once-complex (and accepted) act became reduced to a singular, negative interpretation.

I suppose it was also significantly influenced by the advent of modern psychiatry. By framing the desire to end one's life as a symptom of mental illness, specifically depression, the focus inevitably shifted from morality to pathology. So, where the advent of religion produced semantic narrowing, the emergence of modern psychiatry likely caused a cognitive narrowing which reduced complex social, existential, and philosophical factors to diagnoses. The person became a patient, and their decision—a malfunction.

It's ultimately worth remembering that ending one's life was illegal in the UK until the late 20th century.

These days, there is little space left for conversations about autonomy, dignity, or moral reasoning in the decision. Instead, dominant narratives insist on prevention at all costs, reinforcing the binary that to want to die is either irrational or sick. Although this framework may save lives, it can also silence those for whom the struggle is not illness but meaning.

I suppose if we must begin with language to achieve the aim of changing the narrative—and ideally for good. I suppose future prevention means replacing the outdated term; perhaps this may eradicate its stigma once and for all.