When I lost my dad, I didn’t realise how much it would change my life. We didn’t have a great relationship and disagreed on so many things. Our love-hate dynamic defined everything we shared, from supporting rival football clubs to polarising opinions on religion and spirituality. The older I got, the more confident I became, challenging decisions I had once accepted as a boy.

Growing up, my dad was the archetypal African father—emotionally distant, authoritative, controlling, and strict. He had seen the world and believed he needed to shield me from its dangers by instilling the value of hard work. “You have to earn everything. Nothing comes to you by chance,” he’d say. Even now, his words echo in my mind, indelibly etched into the stack of memories I carry.

Stacks are what hold us together in Dev. They store everything—every thought, every moment, every fragment of a life lived. It’s beautiful, they tell us. Eternal. But sometimes, I think about how beautiful it must be to forget.

The burden of memory isn’t something people here talk about often. When I share my struggles, I get the same response: “How would you feel if you couldn’t remember them or how they made you feel?” They talk about the comfort of preserving memories, even painful ones. Wendy, my closest friend here, is one of those people. Like my dad, she’s always on the other side of every debate.

When I complain about the burden, Wendy reminds me of her mother. “If only I had this technology when I lost her,” she says. “Her cancer took everything—her laughter, her hugs, her stories. All I have now are faint traces: a picture here, a random scent there, and the occasional ‘if my Mum were alive’ moment.” For her, the stack is a lifeline, a way to keep her mother alive in more than just whispers of memory.

I understand her pain, but her memories are different. They’re mostly beautiful. What happens when the memories are painful? When they’re an endless loop of regret and grief? Time heals everything, they say, but what about those of us who will outlive time? What hope do we have to heal?

I keep revisiting my dad’s memories, though I’ve been told to avoid them. It’s like a tongue probing a sore tooth. Grief, they call it, but it feels unnatural. I didn’t have the kind of emotional connection with my father that should cause this much pain. I’m not sure if I’m mourning him or the relationship we never had.

This is why I’m desperate for the new update Negasi announced. Soon, we won’t need to rely on personal stacks. Instead, access will be based on what we contribute to Dev. It’s supposed to free us from the weight of individual memories, letting us exist as part of something greater. I’m willing to trade my burden for that freedom.

“We gave up ownership of everything—music, movies, books—and let platforms sell us access. They hooked us, then stripped us of control. Now they’re doing it with memories.”

– Wendy Donkor

But, of course, Wendy doesn’t agree. She calls it “the death of ownership.” “This is just like Earth,” she says. “We gave up ownership of everything—music, movies, books—and let platforms sell us access. They hooked us, then stripped us of control. Now they’re doing it with memories.”

Her argument makes sense. Losing control over something as intimate as memory feels wrong. But I can’t hold onto these memories any longer. They’re chains, not treasures. If letting them go means I lose a piece of myself, so be it. I don’t want to carry these confused feelings for eternity.

The update is weeks away, and I’ve already started imagining what life could be like without my dad’s voice echoing in my mind. Maybe I’ll finally be free. Maybe I’ll find peace. Or maybe I’ll discover that forgetting comes with its own kind of burden.

Until then, I’ll keep visiting those memories. Not because I want to, but because I need to understand why they still haunt me.