Written By | Evan Sande Ndahura
Evan Sande Ndahura is a Ugandan political and legal commentator, columnist, poet, and social justice advocate
Search
COMMENTARY
Every 14th of February, the world is draped in red—red roses, red hearts, red price tags. Shops overflow with cards scripted by strangers, chocolates engineered for impulse buying, and promises packaged neatly for one calendar day. Valentine’s Day has been sold to humanity as a universal celebration of love. Yet beneath the perfume of romance lies a carefully constructed myth—one whose origins are shaky, whose global relevance is questionable, and whose modern survival is anchored more in commerce than in genuine human affection.
To understand the present spectacle, one must first confront the fog surrounding its origin. The commonly cited figure, Saint Valentine, is not a single, clearly identifiable person. History speaks of multiple Valentini—Christian martyrs in third-century Rome—whose stories are fragmented, contradictory, and largely undocumented. One legend claims Valentine secretly married Christian couples against imperial orders; another suggests he healed the blind daughter of a jailer and signed a letter “from your Valentine.” These narratives are charming, but they are not historically settled truths. Even the Catholic Church itself, acknowledging the uncertainty, removed Saint Valentine from the General Roman Calendar in 1969 due to the lack of reliable historical information.
In short, Valentine is more myth than man.
More importantly, there is nothing in the life—or alleged deaths—of these Valentini that logically commands the emotional, cultural, and financial investment of billions of people across continents and civilizations. There is no moral, philosophical, or social justification for why a Roman martyr’s memory should dictate how a farmer in Lira, a student in Kampala, or a trader in Lagos expresses love.
Yet the world obeys. Why?
Because Valentine’s Day is no longer about Valentine. It is about business.
Over time, global capitalism adopted the myth and repurposed it. What was once a loosely remembered religious tale became, through advertising, repetition, and cultural engineering, a lucrative global industry. Florists, chocolate manufacturers, restaurants, hotels, fashion brands, and digital platforms all benefit from the emotional pressure created around this single day. Love, once a deeply personal and continuous human experience, was reduced to a deadline—prove it by February 14th, or else.
The economics are staggering. Each year, billions of dollars are spent worldwide on gifts that often carry no lasting value beyond the moment. People borrow money, overspend, or divert resources from essential needs to satisfy expectations that were never theirs to begin with. Some steal. Some lie. Some strain relationships trying to perform love rather than live it.
And the costs are not only financial.
Valentine’s Day has become a season of emotional violence. It breeds comparison, exclusion, and silent humiliation. Those without partners are made to feel inadequate. Those in relationships are measured by material output rather than sincerity. In the name of love, people rush into intimacy without caution, leading to broken relationships, unwanted pregnancies, and the transmission of sexually transmitted diseases. Others discover betrayal, disappointment, or the painful truth that affection bought under pressure is often hollow.
Even more disturbing is the emotional toll. Around the world, countless individuals have suffered severe psychological distress due to romantic misunderstandings, abandonment, rejection, and unmet expectations. Many have lost their lives to despair arising from love-related conflicts—yet their stories are never globalised, commercialised, or ritualised. No chocolates are sold in their names. No holidays are declared for them.
This raises a critical question:
What, exactly, made Valentine more special than all the others who loved deeply, lost painfully, and died quietly? The answer is uncomfortable but honest—nothing, except convenience. Valentine was marketable. His name was adaptable. His story was vague enough to be reshaped. And capitalism thrives on symbols that can be endlessly repackaged. The world did not celebrate Valentine because of moral necessity; it celebrated him because his myth could be monetised.
Several scholars and thinkers have long criticised Valentine’s Day for these very reasons. Cultural critics argue that the day enforces emotional conformity and commodifies intimacy. Feminist scholars have pointed out how it disproportionately burdens men financially and reinforces transactional notions of love. Sociologists have observed that it intensifies social anxiety, loneliness, and relational dissatisfaction. Even religious leaders across traditions have questioned why a supposedly sacred concept like love should be reduced to consumer rituals driven by profit.
To be fair, some argue that Valentine’s Day has positive effects—it reminds people to express affection, rekindles strained relationships, and creates moments of joy. But these benefits are neither exclusive to the day nor dependent on it. Love does not need an appointment, nor should it be validated by receipts. In truth, love is most authentic when it is private, consistent, and voluntary—not when it is announced by discounts and dictated by social pressure.
Valentine’s Day, therefore, should concern only those who freely choose to mark it within their personal relationships. It should never be a global obligation, a social measure of worth, or an economic trap disguised as romance. Love that requires public performance is often insecurity in costume. Love that survives only on a calendar is already fragile. The myth persists because myths are profitable. But myths, once understood, lose their power.
Conclusion
Valentine’s Day is not a universal truth—it is a cultural product, engineered, exported, and sustained by business interests that thrive on emotional vulnerability. Its origin is uncertain, its global relevance is artificial, and its modern practice often harms more than it heals. Love deserves sincerity, depth, and continuity—not commercial deadlines. The world would be better served by unlearning this ritualised pressure and returning love to its rightful place: personal, humane, and free from market control. Until then, the red roses will bloom each February—not because love demands it, but because profit does.
About the Author
Evan Sande Ndahura is a Ugandan political and legal commentator, columnist, poet, and social justice advocate. His writings interrogate governance, constitutionalism, democracy, and the political economy of power in Africa. Writing from a Pan-African critical perspective, Ndahura believes that Africa’s true liberation will come not through the gun, but through the disciplined and fearless power of the pen.
