We Scroll, But Allwell Ademola Is No Longer Online, But Her Posts Are Still Hilariously Talking -By Isaac Asabor

There is a strange kind of mourning that only the internet knows how to perform. It is not announced by sirens or processions. It arrives quietly, through a missed post, a delayed reply, a timeline that suddenly feels incomplete. That is how many of us realized Allwell Ademola was gone. Not through an official statement. Not through ceremony. But through absence. And yet, she is everywhere.

Her posts are still talking. Still joking. Still arguing. Still laughing. Still dragging people gently, or not so gently, when they deserve it. You scroll past something she wrote months ago and almost forget, for a split second, that she is no longer here to write another one. That is the cruelty and magic of social media: it keeps people alive long after life has stopped.

Allwell understood the internet instinctively. She did not treat it as a performance stage alone, nor as a dumping ground for random thoughts. Her posts carried personality. You could tell when she was tired. You could tell when she was in a playful mood. You could tell when something had annoyed her deeply enough to demand public commentary. She had range, and she used it.

She could be serious without being sanctimonious, funny without being careless, angry without losing her humanity. That balance is rare online, where most people lean too hard in one direction. Allwell did not. She spoke like someone who knew she was being watched but refused to be constrained by it.

Now, those posts read differently. What was once just another joke feels like a small miracle preserved in text. What was once a casual observation now feels like a deliberate gift. Her humour lingers the longest. It sneaks up on you. You find yourself laughing, then immediately feeling guilty for laughing, then realizing there is nothing to feel guilty about. She would have wanted that laughter. She produced it deliberately.

There is something deeply unsettling about grieving someone who still appears in your daily scroll. Death usually removes people from sight. Social media does the opposite. It keeps resurfacing them. A memory pops up. Someone retweets an old line. A screenshot circulates. Her words travel again, untethered from time, unaware that the person behind them is gone.

Allwell’s digital life has become a kind of public archive. Not a polished résumé of achievements, but a messy, honest record of being human in real time. She complained. She celebrated. She questioned things that did not make sense. She noticed details others ignored. She gave voice to everyday absurdities and deeper social frustrations with the same ease.

And now, we read all of it with new urgency. Social media mourning is collective, but it is also lonely. Thousands of people can be grieving the same person, yet each person does so privately, behind their own screen. You scroll alone. You pause alone. You reread alone. You whisper, “I can’t believe this”, to no one in particular.

Allwell probably never imagined that her posts would one day function as a memorial. Most of us do not. We post to be seen now, not remembered later. Yet here we are, gathering around her words as if they are a candlelight vigil. Each share, each quote, each caption saying “this didn’t age well” or “this hurts now” is part of a collective attempt to make sense of loss.

Her humour is what makes the loss sharper. It is easier to mourn solemn voices. It is harder to mourn people who made you laugh. Laughter creates intimacy. It lowers your guard. It makes you feel like you know someone, even if you never met them. Allwell made a lot of people feel that way.

She talked like someone you could sit next to and immediately fall into conversation with. No excessive formality. No performative depth. Just clarity, wit, and confidence in her own voice. That confidence did not come from pretending to have all the answers. It came from being comfortable asking questions in public.

In a digital culture that rewards extremes, she was refreshingly grounded. She could call out nonsense without turning cruel. She could disagree without dehumanizing. She could mock systems without mocking people who were already struggling under them. That distinction matters, and it is one many people online never learn.

Her absence exposes how fragile these voices are. We assume people who post frequently are somehow more permanent, more durable. As if visibility equals invincibility. It does not. The internet amplifies presence, but it cannot protect life. It can only archive it.

Now, her posts are doing what she no longer can: reminding us that there was a person here. A mind. A sense of humour. A way of seeing the world that was specific and irreplaceable. When someone like that disappears, the loss is not abstract. It is felt in tone, in timing, in the sudden silence where commentary used to be.

We keep scrolling because that is what the platforms demand. They are not built for grief. They are built for continuity. There is always another post, another trend, another outrage. But something shifts when the person you are mourning was part of that flow. The scroll becomes heavier. Familiar jokes land differently. The timeline feels louder and emptier at the same time.

Allwell’s death forces an uncomfortable reflection: how lightly we hold one another online. How quick we are to dismiss, attack, or ignore, forgetting that there is a full human being behind every account. Someone with a body that can fail. Someone with limits. Someone whose last post may already be behind them without anyone realizing it at the time.

There is no moral lecture hidden here, no neat lesson to wrap this grief in. Loss does not resolve into wisdom on demand. Sometimes it just sits there, awkward and unresolved, interrupting your day. Sometimes it shows up as a laugh that turns into a sigh. Sometimes it shows up as a screenshot of a joke you wish you could respond to one more time.

Allwell Ademola is gone. That is the blunt truth. No amount of reposting will change it. But her voice lingers in the only way the internet knows how to preserve voices: through repetition. Through memory. Through people refusing to let her words disappear into the endless churn.

Her posts are still hilariously talking, not because death has frozen them in irony, but because they were alive to begin with. They carried her energy. They still do. And every time they resurface, they remind us that behind the humour was a  thinking, feeling person who mattered.

The scroll continues. It always does. But now, it carries a pause. A hesitation. A quiet acknowledgement that someone who once made this space brighter is no longer here to do so again.

We scroll. She does not. But her voice echoes anyway.