Pius Adesanmi: Death in the age of Social Media

ocial media scares me. It should scare anyone alive. While the world mourns a 6- foot plus giant whose abrasive combination of the Horatian and Juvenalian satire earned him global acclaim, a few of us grieves a son, a brother, a wife and a father. In the era of social media, a few people have read their own obituary; while some of us have had the misfortune of being informed about the death of loved ones on social media. Some psychopaths appear to be in competition to announce bad news. In that contest, people fail to realise that people grief differently.

For me, Pius Adebola Adesanmi has not always been ‘the prof’. I am trying to come to terms with the demise of the gentle giant that addressed me with honorific pronouns, the one who bestowed on me consanguinity and affinity and shared the joys of growing as well as the worries of life.

February 23 was the last time I sat together with him and a group of younger friends to analyse Naija’s presidential elections. We all chatted over a huge pot of hot pepper soup. There was no sign of death on that baby face. He did not tease me over my wife’s love of spicy food. On this occasion, Nigeria was on the plate and the younger invites, including the bachelors among them came with something to eat. We had laughed over their Canadianization, knowing that in Naija, invites are not under obligation to ‘bring something along.’

On March 5, he rang to inform me of the trip to Kenya, complaining about potentially wasting two flight days to and fro for a one-day programme. He assured me that he found someone to teach his classes.

Pius hated flying. We both share the views that planes are flying coffins and that every landing is a rebirth. Unlike cars, there are no parking lots in the air. He would call to ask for prayers before taking off from Ottawa but not on this trip. Reading his Facebook post of Psalm 139:9,10 surprised me, and I was waiting for him to return to grant him the title of our mutual teacher, Dr Baa Mensah who addressed him as le Pape Pius. He was an unapologetic Catholic.

On March 10 when I first read of a plane crash and responded with – our hearts and prayers are with the victims of ‘Kenya Airways’ flight, before being corrected by a friend, my mind did not make that connecting with the flight and my dearest cousin when I deleted the tweet.

Within minutes after that event, my world crashed when two mutual friends were trying to diplomatically break the sad news with their phone calls from two opposite ends of the globe. By this time, social media obituary writers were already writing their eulogies as my phone was ringing off the hook. It is shameful how people wanted me to break the news for their social media handles. Minutes later, I drove like a lunatic to his house, taking the stairs two steps at a time to reach his distraught wife, our worst fears were nearly confirmed.

Pius was a public asset because he made peoples problems his daily concern. That did not give his online friends that right to break the sad news of his death before family members knew. This would remain the most painful passage in the age of social media. The fact that Naija e-rats did not allow his aged mother, his sisters, his wife and his two young daughters the grace of hearing from those trained to break such sad news is most painful.

The fact that online friends believed they could earn social media medals by breaking such sad news truly hit home. What on earth do people gain from breaking other people’s deaths on social media? Why can’t we exhibit that human feeling that the death of any human diminishes us? Why are we in a competition to break bad news? The past two weeks has left me in dread of the social media that killed Pius Adesanmi before his plane hit the ground in Ethiopia. May God forgive those in competition for breaking bad news.

Reactions to Pius’ death makes dying look like winning the best medals at the end of a marathon. His passage has been celebrated in ways and manners that would make presidents jealous with envy. Major cities across the globe have held vigils; Carleton has launched a scholarship in his honour. Friends have written passages and some are raising funds to immortalize him. The Canadian Senate and its Naija counterpart have held sessions in his memory. The politricians he spent his life bashing were on queue confessing how his writings gnawed at their dead conscience.

Death must be jealous that in taking Pius at such a tender age, it immortalized a gem. Yes, we would be missing a son, a benefactor, a husband and father, but the world has decided that death could not take away his legacy. The encomiums are great, but professors are poorer than they seem. Pius has left two ebullient children whose brilliant future would depend on us transforming our eulogies into the financial muscle that would mitigate the impact of losing a doting dad.

Our elders were right when they said – ká kúkú kú l’ọmọdé ka f’esin se rele eni ó sàn ju káa dàgbà láì l’adiye irana. Good night coz, good night ọmọ Adesanmi, ọkọ Olumuyiwa, bàbà Olúwadámiláre and Olúwatisé. By leaving us so early, you have joined the orishas in the pantheon.