Earlier today, I was telling a friend how much I adore flowers. I shared how, this past Valentine’s Day, I received two dozen red roses, and oh, how beautiful they were. Easily one of the best gifts I’ve ever received. Not because of their cost, but because of what they meant. Simple. Elegant. Intentional. I smiled as I said, “They made my entire week.”
As we talked, we both laughed about how impractical such a gift would seem in Nigeria. A typical Nigerian girl, especially a millennial like me, would probably expect food or money first, then maybe dresses. Fresh flowers? That’s just not a “thing” you’d expect or even give in most romantic relationships. It’s a lovely gesture, but back home, it often feels odd, maybe even wasteful. So we simply didn’t talk about flowers that way. At least not back then.
But thinking about it now, I realize that I have loved flowers all my life.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to them. The everyday, common flowers we could find growing around us—the hibiscus, especially. I still remember plucking hibiscus blooms and tucking them behind my ear or weaving them into my hair for the day. It wasn’t about fashion. It was joy. It was beauty. It was mine.
There was the Pride of Barbados, too. Those vibrant flowers that often looked like they belonged in a bush, but when they bloomed? Pure magic. Bursts of orange, red, and yellow, each shade telling its own story. No one gave those as gifts, but I received them anyway, freely given by mother nature. And I accepted them with wonder.
I’ve always loved flowers. I’ve always loved books. And lately, a thought has been ringing in my head, over and over: Books and flowers. Books and flowers.
I don’t know what it is. A business idea? A brand? A mantra? A ministry? I haven’t figured it out yet. But it’s been looping in my mind like a chorus that won’t stop playing.
I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw it: April 23rd is Saint George’s Day in Catalonia, Spain, and, it’s also known as the Day of Books and Roses.
Wait, what?
Books and roses?
I paused. Smiled.
Who would have thought it was an actual thing? That there’s a day set aside to celebrate the exact two things I’ve been obsessing over all week? It felt like a culture shock, in the most delightful way. There’s a whole celebration out there for people who love books and flowers. People like me.
And that realization felt like freedom.
It felt like permission to embrace the things I love without apology. To relive the quiet joy of sneaking into a bathroom in the middle of a chaotic day, just to catch the next plot twist in a book. To stay up all night because you have to know how the story ends. To look around and see fresh flowers, not because someone’s trying to impress you, but because beauty belongs in your space. You chose it. You deserve it.
Even better when the flowers are sent by the love of your life.
I don’t always know how to explain this to others, but for me, it’s the peace. The presence. The moment. That second when you’re holding a book, reading a sentence that stirs your soul, while the air around you is laced with the subtle scent of fresh flowers.
It’s not just romantic. It’s restorative.
So today, I celebrate books and flowers. I celebrate that little Nigerian girl who loved beauty in a culture that didn’t always understand it. And I celebrate the woman I’ve become, living in a place where I can love what I love, out loud.
Happy Books and Roses Day, dear readers and fellow flower lovers.
May your life be full of stories worth reading, and blooms worth admiring.
Books and Flowers will suit a book club perfectly! I can think of a broader concept and share with you privately.
And oh, I’ve always loved flowers but just enough to admire and move on. I don’t think I love them enough to want to have them as gifts because I would have to say goodbye to them early and I suck at saying goodbyes to things I love.
This is such a lovely piece! Thanks for sharing!