The Hidden Social Costs of Always Being Available

The Pressure of Constant Connectivity in Everyday Life

Imagine this: It's a humid Saturday afternoon in Lagos, and you're finally settling in for some jollof rice with your family after a long week dodging danfo buses and negotiating market prices. Your phone buzzes incessantly— a work email from your boss in Abuja, a group chat exploding with plans for a owambe party, and your sister's urgent voice note about her latest drama. You pick up, respond, and before you know it, two hours have vanished. Sound familiar? In Nigeria, where mobile networks blanket even the remotest villages and WhatsApp is basically a national lifeline, being 'always available' has become the unspoken rule. But beneath this convenience lies a web of hidden social costs that are quietly eroding our connections, health, and joy.

We're living in an era where '24/7 availability' isn't just a perk for tech-savvy folks—it's expected. From young hustlers in Onitsha markets checking commodity prices on their phones to corporate climbers in Victoria Island fielding calls during church service, the pressure is real. Yet, this constant tethering comes at a price we often overlook. Let's unpack these hidden costs and see how they're playing out in our daily Naija lives.

The Toll on Personal Relationships

One of the biggest hits is to our relationships. Think about it: When you're always 'on,' you're never fully 'present.' I remember a time when I was buried in freelance gigs, juggling deadlines for clients in Port Harcourt while trying to bond with friends over pepper soup at a buka. My phone was glued to my hand, and every notification pulled me away from the laughter and stories. My friend noticed and called me out—'Bros, you're here but not here.' That stung because it's true. In Nigerian culture, where family and community ties run deep, this disconnection feels like a betrayal.

Take the average Nigerian family. Elders expect you to be reachable for advice or emergencies, like when your uncle in the village needs help wiring money via mobile transfer for his child's school fees. But if you're perpetually distracted, those calls turn into obligations rather than cherished moments. A study from the University of Lagos highlighted how smartphone overuse is linked to higher divorce rates in urban couples—women feeling neglected because their partners are more tuned into screens than conversations. It's not just romantic; friendships suffer too. Those late-night WhatsApp forwards might keep you in the loop, but they replace the deep, face-to-face gist sessions that build real bonds.

And let's talk about parenting. In bustling cities like Kano or Enugu, parents are often glued to work chats even during family dinners. Kids pick up on it, mimicking the behavior and growing up in homes where undivided attention is rare. The social cost? A generation that's connected online but isolated offline, struggling to form meaningful attachments.

Burnout and Mental Health Strains

Beyond relationships, always being available drains your mental battery like a faulty inverter during NEPA outages. In Nigeria's high-stakes job market, where 'hustle' is a badge of honor, saying 'no' to after-hours pings can feel like career suicide. But this glorification of busyness leads straight to burnout. I've seen it in colleagues at media houses in Ikeja—eyes glazed from endless Zooms, snapping at minor issues because they're running on fumes.

The mental health impact is profound. Constant availability triggers a cortisol spike, that stress hormone keeping you in fight-or-flight mode. For many Nigerians, especially in informal sectors like ride-hailing with Bolt or Uber, drivers are expected to be on call round-the-clock, leading to sleep deprivation and anxiety. A report by the Nigerian Psychological Association notes rising cases of digital fatigue, where the fear of missing out (FOMO) on opportunities—be it a business deal or family news—keeps people wired.

It's worse for women, who often juggle 'availability' across multiple fronts: work, home, and social duties. A trader in Oshodi market might be haggling prices while responding to her husband's texts and her kids' school reminders. This overload doesn't just exhaust; it fosters resentment. Over time, it erodes self-worth, making you feel like your value lies only in what you can provide instantly.

The Erosion of Personal Space and Identity

Here's a subtler cost: losing your sense of self. When you're always available, your life becomes a reactive loop—responding to others' needs instead of nurturing your own. In a country where personal time is already scarce amid traffic jams on the Third Mainland Bridge or power cuts that force candlelit evenings, carving out 'me time' feels like a luxury.

Consider the creative souls among us—musicians in Lekki or writers in Abuja. The muse strikes at odd hours, but if you're bombarded by 'quick questions' on social media, that spark gets smothered. I once missed a writing deadline because I spent an evening troubleshooting a cousin's phone issue remotely, all because 'family first.' It's noble, but at what point does it chip away at your dreams?

Socially, this availability culture reinforces inequality. The elite with unlimited data can afford to unplug; the rest of us, scraping by on pocket Wi-Fi, feel compelled to stay online to stay relevant. It widens the gap, turning 'always available' into a marker of status rather than solidarity.

Real-Life Scenarios from Naija Streets

Let's ground this in specifics. Picture Ada, a bank teller in Abuja. She starts her day at 6 AM with customer queries via app notifications and ends it at midnight with compliance reports. Weekends? Blurred into overtime. Her social life? Limited to filtered Instagram stories. Ada's story mirrors thousands: the hidden cost is a loneliness epidemic, where virtual connections replace the warmth of a real embrace at a naming ceremony.

Or take Chidi, a tech entrepreneur in Yaba's Silicon Valley hub. He's always pitching ideas on LinkedIn, but his constant yes to meetings leaves no room for recharging with football at the local pitch. The result? Innovation stalls because his mind is fragmented. These aren't hypotheticals; they're the undercurrents of our hyper-connected society, where the social fabric frays from overexposure.

Reclaiming Your Time: Practical Steps Forward

So, how do we fight back without unplugging entirely? It's about intentional boundaries, tailored to our Nigerian realities.

First, set 'do not disturb' hours. For instance, mute work groups from 7 PM to 8 AM, explaining it as 'family time'—a concept we all respect. Use Nigeria's communal vibe to your advantage: Tell your boss or family you're available during set windows, like after the evening news.

Second, prioritize in-person interactions. Swap some WhatsApp banter for actual meetups—a walk in Freedom Park or a quick chai at a roadside joint. These build resilience against digital isolation.

Third, practice digital detoxes weekly. Start small: One evening off screens, perhaps reading Chinua Achebe under a mango tree or cooking up a storm in the kitchen. Track how it boosts your mood and relationships.

For parents, model availability to people, not devices. Put phones away during meals and encourage kids to do the same, fostering talks about their day at school or dreams for the future.

Finally, advocate for change. In workplaces, push for policies like 'no emails after 6 PM,' drawing from global trends but adapting to our context—maybe tie it to cultural values like rest on Sundays.

By addressing these hidden costs, we can reclaim the joy of being truly present. In a nation as vibrant as ours, where life pulses with energy from Calabar carnivals to Durbar festivals, let's not let screens steal the show. Being available is great, but being fully alive? That's the real hustle worth pursuing.

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