On February 14, Nairobi turns into a live-action rom-com directed by capitalism. The matatu conductor, who yesterday yelled “Ongeza fare!” like he was auditioning for a WWE match, suddenly wishes me “Happy Valentine’s, madam” with a wink.

My phone buzzes with Safaricom bundles “for you and your special someone”, which is rude because my special someone is my pillow and it does not need 10GB. I didn’t ask for this parade of public affection, and I definitely didn’t consent to being emotionally collateral damage in a pink-and-red economy.

Here’s the thing: I don’t hate love. I hate the hype. The kind of hype that turns affection into a public performance with price tags attached. By the first week of February, supermarkets are already flirting with me. Discount chocolates in aisle five. Teddy bears larger than my bedsitter bed in aisle six. Restaurants I normally love suddenly post ‘Valentine’s Couple Menu: Sh6,500’. Which is hilarious because last month, their pilau came with free soup.

The city’s tempo changes. You feel it in the way flower vendors multiply like algorithms learned our weaknesses, in the way office WhatsApp groups start planning ‘Secret Cupid’ exchanges that somehow always leave someone crying in the bathroom at lunch.

I’ve lived this movie before. One year, my friends convinced me to “just come out, even as single people”. We went to a popular rooftop in Westlands. The queue snaked past a man selling roses that were definitely meant for funerals but had rebranded overnight.

Inside, the DJ only played songs that made everyone lock eyes and sway like they were under a romantic spell. Meanwhile, I paid Sh900 for a mocktail called ‘Single and Thriving’, which tasted like regret and pineapple.

At 9.43pm, a waiter rang a bell and announced, “Couples, this is your moment!” and a hundred people stood up to exchange gifts. I stood up, too, mainly because of peer pressure. I hugged my friends. The waiter looked at me like I had broken the Geneva Convention.

As Gen Zs, we’re supposed to be allergic to performative culture. We talk about authenticity. Yet, come Valentine’s, we suddenly become extras in a Netflix original titled ‘We Love Loudly’. One of my friends, Evans Odero, 26, puts it plainly: “If I don’t post my girl on Valentine’s, people will think I’m hiding her or I’m broke.”

He’s not wrong. The pressure to be publicly coupled up is real. Instagram becomes a battlefield of captions: “I prayed for you,”“Soft launch turned hard,”“Love wins.” Meanwhile, single people become the background, there for comic relief or pity claps.

To be fair, there’s another side. My cousin, Sharon Mwende, 27, says, “Valentine’s gives me a reason to slow down and be intentional. Life is chaos. One day to celebrate love isn’t the enemy.”

And she’s right. In a country where work hours stretch, traffic steals our souls and the cost of living has us budgeting emotions, a calendar reminder to be tender isn’t evil. Research backs this up: rituals — yes, even commercialised ones — can strengthen relationships because they create shared meaning and predictability. People crave moments to pause and say, “You matter.”

I just wish the pause didn’t come with a receipt and a social media performance review. Because the hype has consequences. Prices spike. That Sh6,500 dinner isn’t just a joke; it’s a reflection of how holidays become micro-inflation events.

Young people already navigating precarious work and side hustles feel compelled to spend beyond their means. I’ve watched friends take out Fuliza to impress someone they met on Hinge two weeks ago.

The pressure doesn’t stop at money. Valentine’s also sharpens loneliness. Studies link days of hyper-visible romance to spikes in reported loneliness among single people, not because we suddenly want a partner but because the world decides to shout, “You are not the target audience today.”

What annoys me most is how love gets flattened into gestures. A bouquet becomes proof of care. A dinner reservation becomes evidence of commitment.

Meanwhile, the quieter work of love — showing up on a random Tuesday, splitting bills without drama, checking in when your partner is spiraling — doesn’t trend. I once dated someone who was poetic on Valentine’s and emotionally illiterate the rest of the year. We posted photos. The captions aged better than the relationship.

So yes, I’m skeptical. Not bitter, skeptical. I’ll take a friend who brings me soup when I’m sick over a man who brings me roses for the algorithm. I’ll take the auntie at my local kiosk who throws in an extra mandazi “for love” on a rainy day. I’ll take love that shows up in matatus when someone gives you their seat, in M-Pesa notes that say “nimekusaidia kidogo”. Those are the Kenyan love languages that don’t need a hashtag.

If Valentine’s works for you, enjoy it. Post your joy. Eat your overpriced dessert. But let’s stop pretending one day defines the quality of our connections. And let’s stop making single people feel like they missed a bus to happiness.

I’ll be at home on February 14, ordering my usual, muting the couples’ content, and celebrating the soft, stubborn fact that my life is full. My pillow and I don’t need 10GB. We need peace.