By Ibraheem Daramy
On 19 October 2025, I joined a radio chat group on Hope FM 93.3 in Makeni with a survivor of illicit substance abuse — a young man who had all the time in the world to recount what he’d been through. As he spoke, I couldn’t help but think: maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t be here if we had been more sincere in the past.
During our transitional justice period, those whose hands were soiled with blood were spared accountability because they were deemed not to “bear the greatest responsibility.” That threshold was reserved for the planners, financiers, and commanders. Juxtaposing that in today’s context, those who bear the greatest responsibility for the kush and tramadol crisis are the importers, manufacturers, and dealers — not the unfortunate, unkempt young men on the streets. Going after them alone exposes the height of our heartlessness.
When the President declared kush a national emergency, the Old Government Hospital in Makeni was identified as a potential rehabilitation centre. I personally went there and politely asked the squatters to vacate. They obliged without resistance — but returned a few months later. When I confronted them again, they told me, sarcastically, that they would leave when the engineers arrived to fix the place. One year on, we’re still waiting.
So when I saw a notice from the Judiciary of Sierra Leone dated 20 October 2025, outlining the Chief Justice’s commitment to the fight against illicit substances, I applauded the move. But alas, the following day, a notice from the Ministry of Local Government and Community Affairs (MLGCA) to the Mayor of Freetown played directly into the hands of the sceptics.
While the judiciary’s notice rallied its troops for an imminent onslaught, the one from the MLGCA effectively shut down the armory and tossed the keys into the wind. The release read: “Request for evidence regarding alleged kush-related deaths in Freetown.” More than the author would admit, it amounted to a tacit admission that the very duty bearers may be in league with the drug barons.
The letter’s tone was nothing short of threatening: “In light of the foregoing, you are hereby requested to provide, within five (5) working days of receipt of this correspondence…” — and the threats went on.
There have long been allegations that people of influence are profiting from the misery of our youth. Even the first family has struggled to shake off such accusations. Allegations linking them to the drug menace just keep resurfacing.
We are still reeling from the disgraceful incident involving our diplomat in Guinea, whose vehicle was found carrying illicit substances and undeclared foreign currency. His rushed replacement has already taken up post. Within the subregion, Sierra Leoneans carrying the national passport now face humiliating searches at airports and border crossings — all in the name of “security checks.”
The National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) is legally tasked with leading the fight against illicit substances, but beyond its statutory powers, it remains toothless. It has become everyone’s favourite example of the least supported public agency. I recall a sobering admission by Sim Turay, then head of the NDLEA, during a National Budget Discussion. Quoting the statute, he confessed that his agency did not even have a vehicle to call its own.
With such glaring institutional weakness, you’d expect its closest ally — the Sierra Leone Police (SLP) — to step up. But notwithstanding the many decent officers I know, the conduct of some within their ranks continues to erode public trust. Some officers have been complicit; others, openly corrupt. I once witnessed a senior officer, after a successful raid, discussing business with a known dealer about selling the confiscated evidence back to him.
That is how low we’ve sunk.
Until the state chooses sincerity over symbolism — until it stops shielding the powerful and starts protecting the powerless — the fight against drugs will remain nothing but theatre.
