Why I Archive On The Internet

Nyasha’s Facebook bio: I live, I love, I sing = I am.

My cousin Nyasha passed away when I was 11 years old.

She was in her 20s, and I didn’t realise how young that really was.

She posted a lot on Facebook, and the older I’ve got, the more I go back to her page.

To look through her captions, her status updates, the people who still post on her wall.

I feel like I didn’t know her that well in life — obviously, there’s a 10-year age gap between us.

But I still feel her presence. I still feel her warmth when I go through her Facebook page.

Her captions about going out with her friends.

The pictures she posted from family gatherings with sweet little captions about loving family.

Seeing the pictures of me as a kid — and how I looked through her eyes.

Seeing the parts of her life.

And now… I’m older than my cousin.

And I think that’s what started me archiving on the internet.

Maybe not consciously.

But I think about it.

I still go to her Facebook.

I still look through all of her pictures.

Every photo. Every caption. Every comment.

I go to the bottom of her page, and I wish there was more to scroll.

I miss my cousin.

That was the first time I dealt with death.

It didn’t feel like a big deal at the time.

I don’t know — I was a child.

But her funeral felt like a celebration of life.

Maybe that’s just a Caribbean thing, I’ve noticed.

When someone dies in my family — at least on my Barbudan side —

it’s not just sad.

I mean, sadness is in the air. There are tears that we spill.

We cry. We hold each other.

But then there is joy.

There is dancing.

There is laughing.

There is sharing of memories and looking at the pictures.

And then, more tears.

But it doesn’t feel sad.

So when my cousin Nyasha passed onto the other side, I didn’t realise how sad it was.

I’m now 25.

I’m older than she was.

And I realise how sad it is now.

And I still go through her Facebook.

That’s why so much of my life is on the internet.

I wish there was more of her to scroll.

I know that that the end

is coming for us all.

But it still makes me sad.

It still makes me cry.

At the time, when I was 11, I didn’t know how heavy it was.

I didn’t realise how permanent it was.

Now I’m older than my cousin.

⸻

Sometimes I wonder what people will find when they scroll through my pages.

Not in a morbid way. Just… if anyone ever needs to feel close to me.

If someone I love ever wants to hear my voice again, or see how I thought, or what I found beautiful — they’ll be able to.

It won’t all be polished or perfect.

But it will be me.

Maybe that’s why so much of my life lives on the internet.

Not for a following.

Not even really for feedback — though when people tell me they’ve felt seen in something I’ve written, I’m always moved.

It’s mostly for me.

And a little for whoever might one day scroll to the bottom of my page and wish there was more.

⸻

Grief.

And all of a sudden, all the tears came.

I wish there was more of her to scroll.

I didn’t cry at her funeral.

I remember feeling strange about that for years — like something was wrong with me.

But I was a child. I didn’t fully understand how permanent it was.

All the tears came later.

I think it was when I got a notification that it was her birthday, 16th May 2024. That’s when the tears came for the first time — when I realised I was older than her.

—I cried a lot while writing this

In loving memory of

Nyasha

Iroma

Jessie

Nyasha’s Facebook bio: “I live, I love, I sing = I am.”

Thank you