♫ We Are The Logged In G-e-n-e-r-a-t-i-o-n ♫

A woman from the Hausa tribe, with a red mark on her thumbnail indicating she has already validated her voting card, looks at her smartphone while she waits for friends to finish the process, at a polling station located in an Islamic school in Daura, the home town of opposition candidate Gen. Muhammadu Buhari, in northern Nigeria Saturday, March 28, 2015. Nigerians went to the polls Saturday in presidential elections which analysts say will be the most tightly contested in the history of Africa’s richest nation and its largest democracy. (AP Photo/Ben Curtis)

You might as well just sing it, ♫ We are the logged in g-e-n-e-r-a-t-i-o-n, (yet) called forth to show his excellence.♫

I literally catch myself in moments unable to log-out, often, if it’s not the six-month toddler in one hand, it’s a cup of tea or laptop in the other, one thing remains certain, I am often juggling, gadget and something else.

Blame it on Silicon Valley?  wait, Juggling conversations with my wife, juggling the report I have to send, juggling the sleep I need to get. Juggling the presentation I need to prepare, the budget I need to finish, All because there is a notification in the vicinity.

We are a logged in generation indeed. Not a bad thing, just that it’s dangerously becoming the ultimate thing.

And since our enemy masquerades as the angel of light, he seems to find no problem with screen lights.

As a result, WhatsApp groups become trivial alternatives rather than a place to cultivate deeper relationships,discourse, after all, nobody grieves about your recent miscarriage since they tagged you in an inspirational Oprah quote.

Few bother to drop by over the weekend since they already reacted with an Emoji about your unemployment posts.

Others  rarely pick up the phone because they already commented their sympathy. Inbox as a quick replacement to couch conversations, tags as an alternative to balcony banter.

Instagram filters concealing the pain of breakups. Status updates disguising break-up pangs.

This is the tragedy of the next-generation Christian; that we are going to reach the end of our lives and realise all we’ve got is 140 characters, hollow relationships, an ocean of Retweets, plus an iPhone 7 maybe.

Oh by the way, I’ve got to lead by example, stop typing this on my phone, and go join my wife in the kitchen, where no notifications interrupt.

Even if I may consider myself part of the ♫ logged-in G-e-n-e-r-a-t-i- o-n. ♫