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The bold and beautiful: Roses, regulations and romance
Employees at Equator Flowers Farm in Eldoret, Uasin Gishu County pack flowers for export.
Do you truly love someone in Kenya? Not the Instagrammable, soft-life variety, but the kind of love that survives the existential dread of inflation and the tyranny of fuel prices. If so, what is the liturgy of your affection? Do you say “I love you”? How many times have we ever uttered those three words? And how many times should we?
The Greek philosopher, Aristotle, once mused that “Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies”. But in Kenya, that single soul often speaks a linguistic cocktail. We are perhaps the first generation to witness Kenyan parents whispering endearments, yet we’d bet a fortune those whispers are strictly in the King’s English, as though romance requires a British passport.
Imagine, if you will, a Meru man or a son of Kalenjin looking at his wife with hazy eyes drooping in love and belches ‘I love you’ in Kalenjin. Could that even be translated? A typical Meru man, chewing his miraa in peace and croons ‘I love you’ in Kimeru? To the traditional ear, such a direct verbalisation feels like sacrilege, or at least a very expensive comedy. A Maragoli farmer, pausing amidst his maize stalks to croon romantic sweet-nothings in Kilogoli, would likely be met with a look of utter bewilderment from his wife.
Yet, as King David sang in the Psalms: “Set a guard, O Lord, over my mouth; keep watch over the door of my lips.” Perhaps that is why many Kenyan men prefer to love in silence, through school fees, through repaired roofs, through slaughtered chicken, rather than through verbal acrobatics. Ironically, these taciturn lovers may love more deeply than the smooth-tongued charmers who distribute “I love you” like political promises.
It’s Valentine’s Day.
As former Safaricom CEO Michael Joseph observed, Kenya is a land of peculiar contradictions. When we fall ill, we receive no ‘get well soon’ daisies. Instead, battalions of well-meaning relatives arrive armed with litres of hot porridge, even when the hospital chart screams ‘Nil by Mouth’. That is our way. But Valentine’s Day? That is a different sermon altogether.
It’s the time the flower farms are experiencing the only boom in their Kenyan sales. We are the world’s flower garden, yet we are not flower people. Contacts with other cultures that send coded messages through flowers and perfumes has taken too long to solidify amongst the African people. We grow the blooms that grace Parisian weddings and London soirées, while here, the language of flowers remains a foreign dialect.
In the West, apologies, flirtations and good wishes are expressed using different types of flowers, different colours and varied shapes. A scent or a specific petal can communicate a plethora of emotions and, as Pliny the Elder noted, flowers were the first luxury of the ancient world. In those cultures, the perfume a wife chooses for the evening is a scented prophecy of what is to follow. But my Mama Mboga wife, returning home after a marathon day of haggling and hustle, has no time for the subtle alchemy of Chanel. We have our own ways of knowing, ways that require no French labels.
But it is Valentine’s Day.
Every pulpit will host an unimaginative preacher admonishing the romantic display, telling us of the pagan roots of St Valentine, urging us toward asceticism.
Even an austere, remote and distant entity like the Central Bank of Kenya has joined the chorus. They have issued a stern decree against the latest romantic innovation: currency bouquets. Folding a bank note into a rose is now a criminal offense. A classic Kenyan irony. By forbidding the money-flower, they have advertised it to thousands who hadn't even thought of it. But let them shout. For as the Book of Ruth proclaims: “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge”. That is the tenacity of the Kenyan spirit.
It’s St Valentine’s Day.
The entertainment industry has scented opportunity. All astute business noses have worked on their repertoire. This year, the stars have conspired generously as Valentine’s falls on a Saturday. Bands are booked, menus have been permutated and combined to make them romantic, affordable, and mutual for the couples, and the wines have been decanted. It’s time to forget the children just for a while and have fun together.
An Ivorian traveler once remarked to me in Nairobi, wide-eyed, “It seems to be a very serious issue here.” He was stunned by our national obsession with this single day. He had never seen such fuss in his own country.
Love it or loathe it, the celebrations will proceed. And for those whose love proves particularly… eeeh, fruitful tomorrow night, we shall gladly welcome a fresh cohort of Kenyans on November 14. So, go on. Love loudly, love quietly, love awkwardly if you must. Whether you say it in English, Ekegusii, Kimeru, Kalenjin, and Maragoli, or through a well‑timed M‑Pesa message, may your Valentine’s Day be unmistakably, unapologetically Kenyan.
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