An Elegy for The Computer Room

We had a computer room growing up not too different to the one below:

My brother used the computer mostly for instant messaging, and I, mostly for Club Penguin (I mean Encarta, of course). Our 'computer room' still exists, although without the now-defunct computer which once carried its designated purpose.

That nostalgic atmosphere currently permeating online spaces isn't necessarily new. Nostalgia has historically functioned as a constant antithesis in the midst of significant changes in humanity; in this case, counterbalancing the exponential shifts across our intertwined political, social, and technological spheres.

Beyond merely housing the computer and its separate clunky parts, the computer room represented a clear boundary between online and offline worlds which seems missing these days. This extends to TVs and landlines, where the physical separation of devices enabled clearer mental and existential separation. Each device possessed a unique function and served as clearly established means to specific ends.

Early apps functioned similarly, where makers aimed for users to achieve specific ends rather than pursuing ulterior motives such as maximising user engagement. These lines have become increasingly blurred, especially driven by a constant need for unified platforms i.e. 'everything apps' borne from a persistent principal-agent problem between companies' motives and our desires.

Nostalgia isn't a weakness, but rather our desperate (yet suppressed) yearning for a moment in time which we may never experience again. In this case, the nostalgia likely emanates from a lack of agency or input in these rapid, monumental changes. Rather than simply opt-in, I wish we lived in a world where we could utilise democratic principles to not merely accept or reject technological advancements, but determine the extent to which they're implemented. We're regularly praised for our adaptability and resilience, but perhaps we should resist more often. More than anything, I fear the era of boycotts has arrived too late as we're now wholly dependent on not just apps, but the systems underpinning these apps—the normalisation of ads comes to mind.

Perhaps we could benefit from a techno-democratic era where government functions not just as a regulator post-facto, but as a complementary builder in the apps and products which shape humanity for better or worse. The stakes are far too great to be left in the hands of a few.

The 'computer room' may have disappeared, but our need for boundaries around the digital remains as essential as ever.

Last Laugh

I've been watching sitcoms for as long as I can remember. I watched Disney Channel classics such as Suite Life and Wizards very early on, before discovering the likes of The Big Bang Theory and Brooklyn Nine-Nine much later on.

As I've known them, sitcoms include: ~20 minute episodes, an ensemble cast (each with unique personality traits), and relatively lighthearted subject matter with minimal continuity. Interestingly, the 'sit' in sitcom stands for 'situational', with the plotlines often revolving around the recurring settings.

I'm almost always watching one sitcom or the other–oftentimes rewatching one as I wait for another to be released. The interesting thing about watching (or rewatching) sitcoms from multiple generations has been noticing the evolution of the sitcom as a genre itself. More than anything else, I believe the evolution of sitcoms may actualise Oscar Wilde's assertion that "life imitates art far more than art imitates life."

The evolution over the last three decades can be explained in part by Baudrillard's "simulacra," which represents a hyperreality where the distinction between real and artificial has collapsed. In the first stage, a sign or image reflects a basic reality accurately. In the second, the image begins to distort or mask that reality. The third stage creates an image that pretends to be a faithful copy but is entirely detached from any real reference. Finally, in the fourth stage, the simulacrum becomes pure simulation–it no longer refers to any real thing and exists entirely on its own, creating a version of reality that feels real, even when it isn't. The simulacra/simulation framework doesn't completely capture the sitcom's progression, but it provides a good basis to work from. The four stages, as originally conceived by Baudrillard, may better align with ongoing discourse on media & journalism and politics.

Nonetheless, early sitcoms in the late-90s to early-00s like Friends and That '70s Show align well with Baudrillard's first stage. The shows are evidently constructed, with artificially engineered interior design and live-studio laugh tracks which amplified their fictionality. The artifice was overt, but viewers willingly accepted it as a reflection of reality. The characters felt like people you might know, and the social dynamics mirrored the norms of the time.

Shows like HIMYM and Two and a Half Men followed shortly after in the mid-00s to mid-10s, actualising a hybrid between the first and second stages. These shows were slightly more layered, and attempted to blur the boundary between fiction and reality through emotional depth and storytelling complexity. Yet, they still relied heavily on sitcom conventions—especially the laugh track—to maintain the required illusory aspects. The situational comedy masked a constructed narrative which maintained its artificiality but still aimed to feel grounded.

However, this era also marked a transitional period which aligns with Baudrillard's third stage. The Office and Parks and Recreation emerged, and challenged the notion of sitcoms revolving around friends and/or family through the 'mockumentary' style. By using the aforementioned sitcom-esque elements, these shows offered a lens into a reality that, whilst previously not attached to the genre, is one all too familiar – the workplace. The absence of the laugh track, combined with the shift in settings and the documentary style, certainly heightened the sense of reality. The comedy was still there, but so was the awkwardness, the silence, and the mundane. Hence, the shows and their characters are deemed more 'relatable' and the distinction between real and simulated faded even further. The mid-2010s marked another revolutionary period for sitcoms, and what I would class a 'golden age' for the genre were one to ever exist.

These days, contemporary shows are still classed as sitcoms although without many of the core characteristics that previously defined the genre. One of the most crucial elements now missing is the 'filler episode' which provides greater context, character depth, through extended situational storytelling. Now, most sitcoms are rather 'flat' and straightforward in a way void of a once lighthearted genre–Only Murders in the Building comes to mind here.

Sitcoms aren't defined merely by recurring settings or comedic writing alone, but a combination of multiple interwoven elements. Although not the case with all shows, we're witnessing a blurring of genres where shows like Hacks and Shrinking adopt the length and emotional depth and satirism of hyperrealistic dramas like Severance. These newer shows don't necessarily reflect or distort reality in the way earlier sitcoms did, but aren't necessarily grounded in any particular social reality either.

I agree that certain comedic tropes which were once popular in the 1990s–2000s are misaligned with contemporary subject matter, conceptions of reality and consumption patterns. However, I worry the age of the sitcom, which once served as a much-needed lighthearted form of escapism, is slowly losing the qualities that made it distinct in the first place.

Discontent

This is another one from the Short Decades series.

In their original forms, the likes of MySpace, Facebook and Twitter provided users with platforms for connection-building through growing their network, adding friends, and maintaining relationships. Hence, social networks. These days, TikTok, Instagram and others are primarily content vehicles, optimised not for connection but for consumption and, increasingly, monetisation. Hence, social media.

There's a powerful feedback loop between language and behaviour, and the terministic shift from social network to social media certainly transformed user behaviour. Once platforms became framed as 'media', the focus fundamentally shifted from "who do I know?" to "what can I share/engage with?" and success became measured in views/likes rather than meaningful connections. The semantic reframing didn't just describe the transformation of these platforms, but instead helped enable and accelerate it; in the same way calling something a "news feed" versus a "friend updates" subtly shapes how we approach and consume that information.

More than ever, we're in a state of perpetual performance through meticulously engineered attempts at authenticity. The 'photo dumps' are ironically often more curated than traditional posts we once knew and loved Instagram for. The 'morning routine' videos, where people wake up, set up their tripods, and crawl back into bed, bemuses me. These seemingly "authentic" moments require extensive preparation, multiple takes, careful curation and constant editing.

In a constant cycle of content creation or consumption, therein lies a pressure to participate in this aspirational theatre that is digital performance which extends beyond our 'online presence'. These very interactions fueled my support for digital monism–the belief that the 'online' and 'offline' worlds are interchangeable and interdependent. On social media, I specifically liken this to an agora where users occupy the role of performer and audience, where users simultaneously watch and are being watched, often internalising this gaze even when offline. This digital visibility creates a continuous self-monitoring that transcends online spaces, affecting how we behave, dress, and interact in physical environments with the assumption of potential documentation. I would argue that such a persistent state of visibility blurs the boundary between performing and authentic living.

I believe the constant pressure to perform alongside the abundance of consumable content has enabled the commodification of human experience. I think some types of 'content' are 1) worth monetising and 2) with few long-term consequences. Specifically, 'content' which decenters the self: possibly including comedy, fitness, career, food, come to mind. We've instead extended beyond these into a blurry genre which doesn't just exist on screens but has become interwoven with all aspects of existence, further cementing that we're not dealing with two separate realms but a synthesised reality. Why? Simply because various aspects of the ordinary human lifestyle now demand documentation and distribution. It's rather homogenous, and subsequently quite exhausting.

The issue at hand supersedes the existence of social media platforms, but their impacts on our lives offline. There are now more 'Instagrammable' spaces than ever: focused on aesthetics and faux-ambience void of natural human insight. More notably, I find it interesting how intimate moments have turned from sacred and personal to opportunities for documentation and distribution. Are we not exhausted from the constant curation?

We're privileged to be alive at a time where we're able to capture various moments and share them with such ease. I simply worry about the long-term consequences of purporting an online digital maincharacterism which extends offline. I suppose I wonder if we're heading towards a future focused on creating content rather than actually being content.

Twenty

I briefly wrote a weekly Substack series titled Short Decades. It's still one of my favourite essays although it's a bit different to what & how I typically write.

In Yoruba culture, proverbs (òwe) reflect a worldview of pragmatic realism through encoded insights about human nature, virtues and cosmic order. These sayings serve as vessels of generational wisdom which transform lived experience into actionable guidance. This philosophy aligns with a broader African saying "An elder sees sitting down what a child cannot see standing up."

Recently I've been contending with "Ogún ọmọdé kìí ṣeré ogún ọdún". In other words, twenty children cannot play together for twenty years. I suppose it can be considered a simple (but harsh) truth.

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.

I know twenty children can't play together for twenty years; I've known that since I was a child myself. Yet somehow it seems we've rebranded naivety as believing relationships can endure, and wisdom as expecting them to fade – embracing "natural drift" as an inevitable occurrence rather than a genuine possibility. I fear this self-fulfilling prophecy not only justifies our passive disconnection from existing bonds, but potentially leaves us perpetually guarded in new connections we're told are temporary by design.