09/10/2025
Narcotics in Kebbi: The Slow Poison Eating Our Future
By Hassan Garba Buhari
Public Affairs Analyst and Commentator
[email protected]
Birnin Kebbi — It was a quiet afternoon in Birnin Kebbi. The sun was gentle, and the air carried the smoky aroma of roasted maize. I stopped by a roadside vendor to buy a few cobs when a young, handsome boy walked up tall, energetic, but with eyes that betrayed confusion. He asked politely for one roasted maize from another buyer. His tone was soft, yet his trembling hands and vacant stare told a deeper story. Something was wrong.
Disturbed by what I saw, I returned to the same spot that evening and asked the maize seller about the boy. Her answer cut deep. “He’s an addict,” she said sadly. “Even if you give him money for food, he will use it to buy narcotics. His parents live here in Birnin Kebbi. They’ve tried everything even took him to the psychiatric hospital. He got better for a while, but when he came back, he started taking the syrup again.”
That brief encounter stayed with me for days. I kept seeing the boy’s face, his youth, his wasted potential and decided to dig deeper. I wanted to understand what was happening to our young people, and why narcotics had taken such a grip on Kebbi.
In the course of investigating this growing crisis, I visited several communities across Kebbi from Birnin Kebbi to Kalgo, Badariya, and Argungu to understand the sources, dangers, and human cost of narcotics. Along the way, I spoke with parents, youth leaders, activists, and religious figures who shared their experiences, fears, and hopes.
According to Hanafi, a civil society activist in Kalgo, the sources of these narcotics are not as distant as many think. “Even though we share borders with Niger and Benin Republics,” he explains, “most of the narcotics used by youth in Kebbi today are medicine-related. They are not coming from outside the country but from within Nigeria, especially from the eastern part of Nigeria. These are pharmaceuticals diverted from their proper use.” He adds that truckloads of medicines arrive in markets and chemist shops every week, many without proper checks. “They look like legitimate drugs,” he says, “but when you trace them, you realize they are part of a bigger network from production to illegal distribution.”
The trade’s reach is wide and cunning. It includes dealers, transporters, and business owners who hide their illegal sales behind respectable facades. Sabi’u, a youth leader in Birnin Kebbi, puts it bluntly: “In Kebbi, most of those involved in selling these narcotic medicines are chemist owners, especially those who are not from the North. They sell tramadol, syrup, and other controlled drugs as if they were common painkillers.”
He narrates how one man, known locally as Chibuke, was repeatedly warned by community leaders to stop selling these substances to young people. “But he refused,” Sabi’u continues. “He said the business brings in too much money. They don’t care about the future they are destroying, only the profit they are making.”
And that profit is enormous. Sallau, a retired teacher in Birnin Kebbi, describes the contrast painfully. “They make huge profits,” he says, shaking his head. “They live in luxury, eat from the best restaurants, build big houses, and send their children to the most expensive private schools, while our own children, the ones they destroy with their drugs, are left without a future.” For every trafficker’s mansion, there is a family in tears; for every luxury car, a youth in prison or rehabilitation.
Among those tears is Shafa’atu, a widow and mother from Badariya. Sitting in her small compound, she clutches an old photograph of her son. “My son, my only son,” she says softly, “the one I thought would take care of me when I grow old, now he can hardly speak straight. He was a good boy, but these drugs took him away from me. He sold my sewing machine, then our television. Now he just wanders around. I pray every day that Allah will bring him back to himself.”
Her pain mirrors that of many mothers across Kebbi. Addiction has turned promising young men into beggars and petty thieves. The streets that once echoed with laughter now carry whispers of fear and regret.
But not everyone has remained silent. In a small community near Argungu, traditional leader Aarashidu recounts how they decided to act. “We discovered that some people were coming to our village pretending to be chemist keepers,” he explains. “But they were selling narcotics to our youth. We organized a committee made up of elders and young men to monitor their activities. We warned them to stop or leave. Some ran away; others were handed to the authorities.” His voice carries quiet pride as he adds, “We are doing this because we must protect our children before it’s too late.”
In Rafin Atiku Birnin Kebbi, a local committee once led by the late Alhaji Sani Danbaturiya took matters into their own hands. Working in collaboration with the Nigerian Police, Courts, and Kebbi State Hisbah, they investigated chemist shops suspected of selling narcotics. “They warned a particular shop owner named Chikudi several times,” recalls Mallam Usaimatu, a religious leader in Birnin Kebbi. “But when he refused to stop, the committee ordered his shop to be closed permanently. That action sent a strong message.”
Mallam Usaimatu believes this is the model every community should adopt. “We need to protect our youth before it’s too late,” he said. “I call on state governments in the North to take action. If we continue like this, we will end up with no capable leaders to drive our region forward. We need an agency that will work hand-in-hand with traditional and religious leaders to fight this menace at the grassroots.”
He proposes the creation of a Kebbi State Narcotics Control Agency (KESNACA), a specialized body that would register chemist shops, issue permits, monitor their activities, and enforce strict penalties for violators. The penalties, he suggests, should include closure of business premises, termination of licenses, heavy fines, confiscation of proceeds, and even eviction from the state for repeated offenders.
From the streets of Birnin Kebbi to the quiet villages of Kalgo and Argungu, the stories are the same young men losing their future, families breaking apart, and traffickers growing rich. Behind every bottle of codeine or tramadol capsule lies a life spiraling out of control, and a system too weak to stop it.
The fight against narcotics is more than a law enforcement challenge it is a battle for the state’s moral and social survival. From Hanafi’s warnings about illegal medicine supplies, to Sabi’u’s exposure of chemist traffickers, from Sallau’s outrage to Shafa’atu’s heartbreak, from Aarashidu’s community defense to Mallam Usaimatu’s spiritual call, one truth rings loud: Kebbi must rise before it is too late.
As I remember that young boy by the roadside, hungry and trembling, I realize he is not alone. He is one of many victims of greed, neglect, and failed systems. If Kebbi does not act now, the faces of its future will continue to fade, one pill, one syrup, one life at a time.
