Valentine’s Day is coming, and as always, the world is in a frenzy. Supermarkets are drowning in red—red ribbons, red chocolates, red roses. Vendors at traffic stops hold up teddy bears the size of small children. On social media platforms like Instagram, a familiar song plays— “Valentine is coming, where’s your boyfriend”?—sending people into fits of laughter, as it does every year. Couples are planning matching outfits, candlelit dinners, and heavily filtered Instagram posts, while the rest of us, the forgotten majority, are expected to either sulk in silence or pretend February 14th is just another day. Every year, this holiday makes love feel like something exclusive—like an event you need an invite to. And every year, I wonder why we let it. If African literature has taught me anything, it is that love is not confined to romance. It is in family, in friendship, in duty, in the quiet, unspoken ways we care for one another. And if that is true, then no one is truly left out on Valentine’s Day.

I recall the novels that helped mold me and the ones that first showed me love—not the sort that is shown in Hollywood films with extravagant gestures and dramatic kisses, but the kind that permeates the atmosphere and is there even when it is not spoken. Though Things Fall Apart was never intended to be a love story, I did see a father's ambivalent love for his kids, a love that was hidden beneath pride, fear, and tradition. Although Okonkwo never expressed his love for Ezinma, I could tell he did when he waited by her bedside and accompanied her into the night. In Purple Hibiscus love was neither gentle nor simple; it was entwined with religion, authority, and a desire for independence. Nevertheless, it was evident in the way Kambili glanced at Father Amadi, in the way Jaja protected his sister, and in the meals eaten together in Aunty Ifeoma's cosy yet chaotic home. African writing does not necessarily encapsulate love in poetry and flowers, as is the case in Western literature. But it does so in ways that are achingly genuine, complex, and unvarnished.

And perhaps that is why, in our part of the world, love itself is rarely declared outright. My mother has never been one for words, but she will call three times in a row if I do not pick up, convinced that something terrible has happened. When I was younger, my father never sat me down to tell me he loved me, but I knew it in the way he played music on slow evenings, in the way he let me sit beside him as he hummed along, in the way he bought my siblings Fanta but never forced me to drink it because he knew I didn’t like soda. Love was in those moments—subtle, familiar, ever-present. It was in the slippers that filled our corridor after he died, in the voices that whispered, “Ndo,” as people came and went, offering condolences in the only way they knew how.

For this reason I find it difficult to limit love to mere romance. African authors rarely give us uncomplicated, simple romances, even in books that claim to be love stories. Stay With Me by Ayọ̀bámi Adébáyọ̀ was called a love story, but was it? Or was it a tale of heartache, longing, and the impossibly difficult decisions people make when love is insufficient? So Long a Letter by Mariama Bâ was about duty and what happens when tradition and love go against each other, and not merely about a woman lamenting her husband's betrayal. Even in Half of a Yellow Sun, where Ugwu, Olanna, and Odenigbo each had their own unique love, the weight of history, tragedy, and conflict had an impact on their relationship. Rarely are African love stories solely about romantic love. They are about surviving, making sacrifices, and the various ways we manage to hang on when things seem hopeless.

Perhaps that is the difference. Love in the way we have been taught to understand it, is too entwined with life to stand alone. It is not just “boy meets girl”, not merely a tidy, packaged romance. It is a mother reserving the best pieces of meat for her children. It is a father telling stories not because he has to, but because he wants his children to remember. It is siblings arguing over trivial matters, but still stay up late when one of them is out. It is community- love that transcends personalities and binds people together even in the hardest of time. 

Western love stories, on the other hand, are often based on the notion of personal fulfillment—finding "the one," falling deeply in love, and defying romantic standards. Hollywood suggests that love ought to be a huge, dramatic thing that can be sought after and claimed. People assume that love must be clearly stated and that it must go from attraction to passion to happily-ever-after in a straight line. But that tidy formula is not applicable to African literature.  love is rarely just about two people; it's about families, history, and responsibilities. The love stories in our books are not designed to make us sigh dreamily; they are there to remind us that love is often messy, often painful, and sometimes, not even enough.

That is why, when February 14th comes around and everyone demands that love be celebrated in a certain way, I don't feel excluded. Love is not limited to bouquets or expensive dinners; it is in the small things, the quiet comfort, and the rituals we hardly notice. I think of my father’s old songs, of my mother’s persistent calls, of the slippers that once filled our home with visitors who came to grieve with us. I think of my siblings, of our shared childhood, of the way love is not always sweet, not always spoken, but always, always there.

Valentine's day of course is sweet and significant, but it is not a do or die affair. Love endures beyond a day, weaved into the peaceful moments that keep us going long after the chocolates and flowers have faded. Love already permeates my life in subtle, long-lasting ways, so I don't need a Valentine's Day card this year or the need to show love on social media. Perhaps I will play an old song that reminds me of my father, answer my mother's calls, or argue with my siblings over the power bank. Or maybe I'll read an African story about love, which is as complicated and indisputable as the love I see around me. This type of love is frequently disregarded in a world that is fixated on spectacle. However, love is more than just grand gestures; it is the last piece of meat placed on your plate, a text from a friend saying, “I saw this and thought of you”, or the hallway light left on because someone remembers your fear in the dark. It is found in the small, reliable things that we hardly ever mention- until we imagine life without them. 

Perhaps if we focused more, we would discover that there has always been plenty of love. When February 14th is done, it doesn't go away, nor is it waiting to be discovered in a candlelight supper or a bunch of roses. It remains in the way we treat one other, in the tales we tell, and in the solace that comes from knowing we are not alone. Perhaps the thing I adore most about love is that it doesn't always have to be seen in order to be felt.