I happen to be one of those late March/early April people whose birthdays either compete or blend with the Easter celebrations. You can read that however you want. In my case, I prefer to blend since I don’t publicly mark my birthday. This year, it fell on one of the days of the Holy Week which was rather fortuitous since it discouraged even goodwill visits. After all, prayers, fasting and general abstinence are what the Church urges during this period. I expected calls and messages from family and close friends who remember the day. And these days of some WhatsApp platforms pushing out members’ birthdays, I have learnt to brace myself for calls and messages from acquaintances as well. It is a once –a – year event, so prayers and well wishes, whether sincere or perfunctory, don’t hurt. A music platform I belong to usually asks for a choice of music to celebrate the day. This year, I chose ‘Everything Must Change’ by George Benson because the message tallied with the mood I was in.

My birthday, and a few days around it, remind me of my advancing years to put it delicately. They remind me of my many physical changes which are very obvious to everyone and my spiritual changes which are obvious only to the discerning. They remind me of the recently concluded election which seemed a long way off this time last year and the changes it has wrought in the body politic of the country. Many unresolved issues in our journey as a Nation have been brought to the surface in these three, four short months. More poignantly, they remind me of THE REAL journey, my journey so far in life. ‘Nothing stays the same’ is a phrase in the lyric of the George Benson song. But that fact doesn’t stop you from wishing, wistfully, that some things can be put in a time capsule to prevent them from changing. One of them is human interaction. Technology is good. It has brought great changes in the way we do things. It has made a lot of things more convenient, simplifying many hitherto tedious tasks – I can, for example, send my columns from the comfort of my bedroom and expect them to be published the same way I have sent them. In my days in the newsroom, all columns were brought in physically. Some columnists stayed around long enough to proofread their articles often killing time in the canteen over a meal or a bottle of beer. That way, external writers got to know their Editors and others in the newsroom. These days, you could be a columnist for years without knowing what your Editor looks like or the lay-out of the publishing house. I am not sure it is a good thing. I made many contacts among older people during those years in the newsroom which proved useful in other spheres of life. Technology has brought far things near and taken near things far to borrow a cliché. It is an unfortunate change from the way we were.

Thinking about the way we were, reminded me of an experience I had when I was young. I was about ten when my mother sent me on an urgent errand in the midday sun. I had barely left the communal compound when a woman called out to ask where I was going. I told her. She showed her disapproval by muttering aloud that the heat was too much. That sentiment was echoed by at least two other mothers before I exited the street. And if it had suddenly started raining, I am sure an umbrella would have surfaced from somewhere; or an offer of shelter in a welcoming home at the very least. That was the kind of love and care that existed in those days when parents knew just about everything concerning their wards and their friends; days when an extra plate would appear if you were with your friend during meal time. When I moved to Festac Town about four and a half decades ago, I was the youngest in our newly minted street or close. The keys had just been given out by the Federal Housing Authority (FHA) and the new buildings needed necessary last minute personal touches. Within a week or two, I had met the other ‘homeowners’ who voluntarily helped me out; especially a brother who was in broadcasting with my senior brother. It was usual to see these older men – they were probably just in their late forties/ early fifties at the time – having pepper soup and sharing drinks in the evenings. The children grew up in that environment, playing, riding bicycles and school buses together. It was an idyllic setting where people cared for each other and messages of a visitor could be relayed to you from someone’s balcony. Festac in the early 80s was big, yet small. We virtually knew ourselves and groupings – professional, sporting, social - were made. I had a group of people, all professionals from different parts of the country, including a Ghanaian, that I played squash and hanged around with. Some of them still live in Festac town and they are now more of family than friends having witnessed weddings and burials together.

The modern lifestyle now is to be alone in a crowd. This I experienced when I moved to a serviced apartment on the island. Here, everybody is in a world of their own. Nobody sits on the balcony to greet as you drive in. Your time on the lift is too short for any meaningful conversation besides a polite ‘hello’. And should we meet on the stairs, we brush past with the barest of greetings. Nobody knocks on the door to welcome a new resident or visit a neighbor for an evening chat. In all these years (about 12), the only notable exceptions were an American couple who genuinely wanted to have Nigerian friends and a friendly woman who reached out and made sure we met her daughter about the same age as us when she came home from the US. Otherwise, I am a neighbor without a name to be described by my habits or idiosyncrasies. Like the man with the funny looking hat or the lady with the vicious dog, I have probably become the reclusive man on the top floor who likes his evening stroll.

From being a young child who was protected by different mothers to an old man whose neighbors don’t even recognize his existence, it has been quite a journey. It is also the story of urban Nigeria where neighbors watch each other but don’t watch-out for each other. This is now the way we are. Unfortunately.

•Muyiwa Adetiba is a veteran journalist and publisher. He can be reached via titbits2012@yahoo.com

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