What do you choose to notice?

I cannot think of anything worse than letting my life and its talent dissolve into an endless scroll. So I am arming myself with the greatest weapon against mass distraction: reading. Because when the internet and tech bros go low, I...go to the library. Yep. I'm talking long-form articles, reports, and evidenced-based studies with the kind of words I have to Google. Books with some character even if they don't have characters. And I've recently added Rob Walker’s The Art of Noticing to my arsenal.

This book is about paying attention. It is not a lecture or a theoretical manifesto about why you need to leave your phone behind. It is more akin to a practice guidebook with practical exercises to purposefully direct your attention so you can "become a better, deeper, more original observer of the world and of yourself". Given my current habits, it is the reset I have been craving. The only thing it has in common with the algorithm, is that there's no obligation to read it in order. The structure actually takes its own advice and asks you to start where your attention lands. I open it at random, pick a prompt, and carry it into my day.

Prompts come in many forms and draw on the practices of artists and some of life’s forgotten and most interesting people. Like “Imagine a museum of everything you thought about buying but did not. What does it say about you?” “Interview an object.” And my choice today, “Monitor your sonic profile,” inspired by Bernd Brunner’s essay which featured Julia Rice, founder of the Society for the Suppression of Unnecessary Noise. What a woman.

I live in Dubai, where influencer-resistant residential enclaves exist but many, myself included, haven't chosen them. Instead I've gravitated toward noise and movement. Traffic accompanied with the aggressive beeps of a Hala taxi, snippets of overheard conversation, the loud celebratory cheers and thumping music blurting from the boats as they pass along the Marina. These are sounds I enjoy. Sounds that suggest life is being lived. Too much quiet makes me feel like the child sitting at the small dinner table while all of the adults get to have the real fun at the big table. That's not to say anything goes, I have rules. Sound cannot be too erratic or close by, like the neighbour who screamed every time any team won or lost a match. My tolerance pretty much stops at my own front door. Inside, I prefer people to move through my space gracefully, as if they care. I prefer to be quiet personally and I have grown more sensitive to close-range noise as I've gotten older.

Some prompts I have been doing instinctively for years, like Walker’s suggestion to randomise your movements. Its the result of being both very Nigerian and adopting our national spiritual maxim “confuse your enemies” in addition to my rebellious angst against monotony. As a result, I'm known to share different parts of the same story to different people and take the long way home by getting off one to three stops early to purposefully get lost as I wander down unfamiliar streets.

Another exercise suggests talking to strangers or following where they take you. TV shows and films make this seem far easier and immediately more rewarding than it often is. But if I had to choose a setting, Airports and travel seem like the perfect fit. Or not. A few years ago in Heathrow, a frail old lady asked me to watch her belongings while she "quickly" went to a kiosk. My first thought was, how quick could she really be? Then, on closer inspection, she just wasn't frail enough for me. So, I looked her straight in the eye, smiled, and politely declined. Nope, not sorry. I had watched far too many episodes of Banged Up Abroad to take such easy bait. Besides, nobody else seemed bothered enough to help either, so I felt vindicated. However, there was another time that I did engage. It was 2015, on a work trip to New York, sitting in my aisle seat, I met a shoe designer in seat B. She was contemplating whether to take a job with Adidas in Germany and asked my opinion. I said yes to Adidas, I was unsure about being Black in Germany, but if I were her I would take it. She invited me out with her friends the next night, and I actually went.

The book also encourages you to notice what people say about you. My sister says I never give directions like a “normal" person. Normal people point you to the nearest street, landmark or obvious sign. My mental map is organised around food. “It's right next to that amazing place that does those delicious big BBQ ribs, you should try it sometime.” Make of that what you will.

Apparently, I have an eye for curation, composition, and the feel of a space or an object. Whether it is good use of white space on a pitch deck or a piece of furniture in my home, people regularly comment on how tasteful and intentional it feels. The more I pay attention, the more I can trace this back to my early childhood with my Father. He loved beauty and pursued the best in everything. Electronics, watches, and even women. My siblings and I were always the first kids in our school to have the latest gadgets: a Game Boy, a Sega Mega Drive, a Super Nintendo. He was also the reason we were one of the first to have Sky TV, despite the other kids' objections. With just a simple quiz we'd quickly refute their claims by asking "What channel is Sky One on?". Three guesses, but it wasn't number 1. New was never his sole requirement though. It was always better if it was new and told a great story. Once, he woke us in the middle of the night to get dressed, then surprised us with a trip to Disneyland Paris, just a few months after it opened. After the long weekend, I came back to school in an exclusive matching Minnie Mouse jumper and trousers, ready to share my epic tales but I was met with accusations of lying, until my teacher corroborated my version of events. Haters.

He travelled often and rarely returned empty-handed. My favourite gift was a gold jewellery set from Saudi Arabia after he travelled for Hajj. While others shopped locally on Fonthill Road, he shipped in tailored suits from Italy for my brother and enormous frilly dresses that came with extra itch for me and my sisters. Turns out, it had to be new, tell a great story, and be well made. He clearly had a standard which I inherited and strictly uphold.

On most Fridays, when other kids queued for the budget version of KFC, I told them I would catch up later and headed to the Jewish bakery to spend most of my money on a tasty bagel filled with a fried chicken fillet. I knew a good thing when I saw it, and I also knew when I did not. At seven, when a classmate came to school in trainers with flashing red lights, I looked her up and down, commended the lighting, then pointed out they were not the real deal. They were not LA Gear lights, like the ones I was in. Believe it or not, I wasn’t trying to make her feel bad. I genuinely thought she deserved to know the truth. Nearly three decades later at thirty-six, I stopped mid-conversation in a Teams meeting to interrogate a colleague (and now dear friend), on why her fridge didn’t quite compliment her kitchen. My father would have understood. And pretty soon, I was about to understand my dear friend.

It was a Sunday afternoon when I came face to face with my standard-bearer doppelgänger in the backroom of church. I had volunteered to watch the children of a mother who needed counselling and a break. As I sat swinging my legs, I noticed the eldest daughter's eyes kept toggling between my feet and her book. Any moment now, I knew a compliment was heading my way. Maybe it was the freshly pedicured toes, or my gold anklet. Actually, it was probably the fabulousness of the pink shade on my sandals. You can imagine my shock when she asked, "Are those........Birkenstocks?". Even as a pro at being awkward, social situations like this still make my brain glitch and cause my conversational skills to revert to that of a toddler. I knew I had to answer soon because the time between weird and rude was closing fast so I settled for a soft "no". I offered no further information, like they were from a sweatshop called Primark in the UK, where even the wealthiest go. All I wanted was for the conversation to end there, but I guess all she wanted is for me to know the truth. “Oh...those are fake Birkenstocks”.

How fun. Just one question sparked a tirade of thoughts and memories and stories, much of which I'd forgotten until I began writing. But that's exactly what paying attention and noticing does. Does it take work, yes, but it is work worth doing. Even if its easier to be distracted and consume passively on a device than to look and engage with intent at ideas, places, and people, I will choose to do the latter. This book is a reminder to sharpen the disciplines of observing, documenting, and narrating what matters. My aim is to retrain myself to recognise the good thing when it appears and to distinguish it from the mediocre thing that is louder, more convenient, or more readily available, without passing judgement or hurting feelings, obviously.

Hopefully, I will be back soon with more of them to share.