Ubiquitious Assimilation

Yesterday, I read Ezra’s very profound piece on intentional obliviousness, and got motivated (yet again) to return to this piece I’ve been working on about something at the other extreme of the spectrum.
Reading his piece helped me form most of my thoughts for this, and I worry that as a result, some of my writing may feel like a rebuttal of some sorts to his piece, but I promise it is not. In fact I believe that a healthy life lies somewhere in the middle between intentional obliviousness and ubiquitous assimilation. But healthy is overrated, no?

Ezra argues that there is strength in looking away, in softening the edges of your world by choosing not to know. I believe that too. But I also believe in the beauty of total submission to the noise.

Last December, while in Lagos for the Nigerian Tournament of Champions, I caught up with some of my faves (and met a few new ones!) on a Friday evening in Lekki.

After dinner at Grey Matter, we decided to head down to Praia for South Socials. Oops.

Some context: I hate parties.

Well, that’s a lie. I fail at parties.

I don’t know how to dance, or what to do with my arms when the beat drops. I can’t drink enough to drown the self-consciousness, can’t endure loud music without plotting my escape, and sweating in a crowd is just… undignified. I’d rather be home binge-watching The Good Doctor. But that night, the inconvenience was worth it. Because Treasure and AJ were there. Because I met Ife and Femi. Because I finally got a break from screaming “Panel!” at the top of my voice.

As the night matured, and as voices got increasingly louder, and steps less elegant, I stood in the middle of it all, stone sober, wide-eyed, and surprisingly, ecstatically alive.

I saw AJ and Treasure dancing with so much energy, my feet hurt just from watching. Behind me, this guy – whose face tattoo I had been staring at all night – dropped his glass as someone stepped on him. I ran into a friend who barely acknowledged me as she scampered around looking for the man she came with – he was lost in the crowd (I hope). Behind us, the baristas kept a stern face as they worked assiduously to service the growing crowd of orders as they came in. In the middle of it all, my mind wandered to how beautiful an experience this was, for me.

It was stunning.

A few hundred people gathered in one venue on a Friday evening, all seeking the same thing: a good time. Yet I could bet a liver that no two people in that room went home with the same experience. Yes, several commonalities – like the sweating and tortured ear drums – but within that chaos, everyone seemed to be living vastly unique, unconnected lives. I couldn’t stop scanning the room, wondering how many micro worlds I could catch before they dissolved. It felt like a crime to blink.

That night stayed with me. Not because it was particularly extraordinary, but because it made me realize how easy it is to miss the world while you’re in it.

We live in such hyper-curated experiences — social media feeds curated to show us exactly what we want to see, tight friend circles with people who we share the most in common with, music and media tailored to our tastes and preferences. And sometimes, because of this, we forget how endlessly layered a single moment can be. Being in an experience often blinds us to the ninety-nine other ones happening around us.

Which begs the question: What would it take to truly be present? To absorb all the textures, all the tremors, all the truths of a single moment?

Short answer: your sanity.

But longer answer? Maybe something else too. Maybe something worth losing sleep and a little sanity over.

I think there’s value in being the kind of person who notices. Who sees the spilled drink and the apology. Who looks beyond the large smile to hear the cracks in the voice, the flicker in the eyes, the stories people tell without realizing. I think there’s something sacred about absorbing the full weight of the moment – its glory, its absurdity, its violence, its grace.

And yes, it is exhausting. Especially in this social media era, where there is so much to hear, so much to see, so many horrors to behold, so much to absorb. It can hollow you out and leave you in a constant battle with yourself to find joy and happiness in the things around you.

But it also fills you with the kind of wisdom that cannot be learned or inherited. It’s the wisdom of being radically awake.

And why should you seek this kind of wisdom?

• To relearn spaciousness. We spend so much time avoiding discomfort(ing) thoughts and curating calm. Maybe what we need isn’t more silence, it is more sound. More friction. More Realness.
• To dissolve the illusion of control. We act like curation magically makes all the other worlds disappear. Like our selective reality is superiority. But half the time, it’s just fear. Fear of mis-feeling, mis-hearing, mis-knowing. When you let everything in, you’re more aware of how fickle and fragile our chosen realities are. Of how close we always are to a different one.
• To amplify nuance. To live a truly purposeful life we must have empathy. We must learn to see life from the lens of others, and when we can, to walk a mile in their shoes. Our world has grown increasingly judgemental as everyone screams “can never be me”, while cuddled up in the safety of their own lives and their own realities. Ubiquitous assimilation lets us see through several other lenses. Because most novelty in life is in the edges – in the tiny off-beat moments we’d usually swipe past because it’s “not really our thing.”

When you genuinely pursue ubiquitous assimilation, life is bound to get less fun, but fuller. You will wake up every morning feeling raw and anxious, worried about what you’ll see today in the midst of all the chaos.

But something about it feels true. Like the difference between a filtered photo and a live feed. I’m starting to trust that chaos can teach me something about the world, about others, about myself. More importantly, I’m learning to take a moment to catch my breath, to search for more angles and more lenses before passing judgement or sharing my hot takes.

And I know there is so much comfort in intentional obliviousness, but as often as we can, we should strive to sit in the moment. To let it wash through our bones. To take away our comfy duvet of curation, and to feel the world in all its mess. It’s all grist for feeling, all grist for being.

And in those moments, we find ourselves more, not less.