On Digital Relationships & Disposable Grief
Earlier today, I typed out a condolence comment on the obituary post of my Jos groceries vendor and a few minutes later, I started to worry about who I would patronise to get my groceries. It felt cold and ruthless to do that. Wasn’t I supposed to be mourning her, though I had no idea what that was supposed to look like? This is the reality of the digital age.
I had been waiting for Sarah to make a post on her page announcing she was back in business. At first, I assumed the delay was because she had decided to take a break and rest. But my wait ended when I woke up to a post announcing her demise. Sarah was no more.
My relationship with Sarah started from Instagram DMs, and progressed through WhatsApp messages about order confirmations, delivery times and bank transfers.
If there is such a thing as digital intimacy, I can say Sarah had mastered it, judging by the comments posted under her obituary. She made her customers feel special, a great number, of whom she had never met. If something went wrong with your order, she would try to make it up to you. There were times she would throw in a little surprise with my order. I was intrigued by her passion and dedication despite the emotional, physical and mental toil it had on her.
Sometimes, when I called her, she would vent about a customer and how tired she was. I was happy to lend a listening ear and sometimes would encourage her to look past such incidents as they came with the job.
During our last phone conversation, she mentioned she was just being discharged from the hospital after being admitted for stress-related issues. Indeed, shopping for a multitude of women, packaging and ensuring their orders are dispatched to various locations will take its toll on anyone. Local market trips are too exhausting and time-consuming and Sarah was a solution I could trust.
Four days before her death, I sent a message inquiring about her health. She responded that she was fine, even adding a smiling emoji.
May 2025 would have made it one year since my first purchase from her and I was looking forward to celebrating it. Celebrating it meant I would probably get a discount or a little something to accompany my order that month. Does that sound absurd?
Within 24 hours of the announcement of Sarah’s demise, there were over 400 “Rest in Peace” comments, crying and broken heart emojis. The irony is that within the same 24 hours, a number of us would have moved on to look for another Jos groceries vendor to patronise. The algorithm, pushing them in our faces. Such is the harsh reality of digital grief. It is authentic yet brief. It hurts, but not enough to disrupt our lives.
It is quite the irony that she disrupted her life — ultimately, perhaps, sacrificed it — to meet our demands, toiling day and night and yet, it seems so easy to replace her significance in our lives with a few quick scrolls and taps.
What’s the lesson here? Is there one? I’d say that technology has altered the very nature of human connection, for better and worse.
What’s your take?
