In the backstreets of Freetown and the slums of Kenema and Makeni, young men huddle in abandoned buildings, vacant-eyed and trembling — casualties of kush, the synthetic drug that has consumed a generation faster than the government can respond.
Once marketed as a cheap alternative to marijuana, kush has become a nationwide epidemic, ravaging Sierra Leone’s youth and overwhelming public institutions. Its precise chemical makeup remains unclear, but its effects are undeniable: addiction, psychosis, and death.
“It’s our collective responsibility to fight this drug. Its impact touches all of us, directly or indirectly,” said Ibrahim Samuel Dugba, Director of Drug Prevention Education and Training at the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA).
Government agencies have launched awareness campaigns, established rehabilitation centres, and promised tighter border controls. Yet, by most accounts, kush continues to spread faster than any policy can contain it.
In parts of Freetown, police officers admit privately that the number of kush-related arrests has tripled in two years. Rehabilitation centres report being at full capacity, and hospitals are treating an increasing number of kush-induced psychiatric emergencies.
Health experts warn that Sierra Leone’s underfunded health system is ill-equipped to manage the long-term impact.
“We’re treating symptoms, not causes,” said a community nurse at Connaught Hospital. “There are no sustainable rehabilitation programmes, no follow-up, no aftercare. So people relapse.”
What has made the situation even more troubling is the emergence of drug-related scandals involving high-profile figures. Earlier this year, authorities discovered contraband substances in the vehicle of Sierra Leone’s Ambassador to Guinea.
He was dismissed, and the government announced an investigation. Months later, no report has been made public. For many citizens, that silence speaks louder than any official statement.
“If people in power are linked to drugs and nothing happens, how can we believe this fight is serious?” asked Mariama Conteh, a youth activist in Freetown.
The incident has deepened public skepticism about the sincerity of anti-drug campaigns and the effectiveness of law enforcement.
Sociologists warn that the kush epidemic is not only a public health crisis but a social and economic emergency. With youth unemployment hovering above 60%, many young people say they use kush to “escape reality.”
“It’s not that they want to destroy themselves,” said Pastor Sorie Jalloh, who runs a small counselling centre in Waterloo. “They are hopeless. Kush gives them numbness — a way to forget hunger, joblessness, and pain.”
Parents describe losing their children twice — first to addiction, then to the streets. Some users have resorted to theft or violence to sustain their habits, putting additional strain on families and communities.
The NDLEA, supported by the Ministry of Youth Affairs and civil society groups, has increased raids and public education campaigns. The government has also proposed new legislation to strengthen border surveillance and control the import of precursor chemicals.
Still, community leaders say that without coordinated mental health services, job creation, and youth engagement, the problem will persist.
Grassroots movements have begun to emerge. In Bo and Kono, former users have formed support groups that combine peer counselling with agricultural training — a model experts say could be replicated nationwide.
Despite growing awareness, the kush crisis continues to outpace policy. The drug’s low cost, easy availability, and addictive power make it difficult to eradicate.
“This is not just a drug problem,” said Dugba. “It’s a development problem. It’s about education, opportunity, and dignity. Until we address those, kush will keep winning.”
As night falls in Freetown, smoke rises from the corners of unlit alleys — faint reminders of a generation fighting to stay alive in a battle the country has yet to win.
By Joe Turay
