EJIKU Justine
Not so long ago, the boy child in West Nile was the pride of the region; strong, industrious, and full of promise. Today, he is a walking time bomb, a casualty of a society that has abandoned him to the demons of drug addiction, violence, and crime. The streets of Arua and other towns in West Nile are no longer just roads; they are battlegrounds where young men, high on a cocktail of deadly substances, terrorize innocent people with reckless abandon. Walk through the streets of Arua, you will find Young men, intoxicated beyond reason, stagger through the city like ghosts of their former selves. If you dare walk too close, you might receive an unsolicited slap, not out of malice, but because reason has long left their minds. The last time I was in the city I found myself instinctively maintaining a three-meter gap, not out of respect, but out of raw fear.
The boy child has become a daredevil on motorcycles, West Nile’s very own version of kamikaze pilots. They rip off their exhaust pipes, transforming their bikes into mobile weapons of mass disturbance. On empty roads, they ride nicely like priests and monks, but the moment they spot innocent pedestrians, they turn into stuntmen from a doomsday movie. With a thunderous kpuaaaaaa! a sound that could be mistaken for gunfire. They speed past, leaving behind nothing but terror and ringing eardrums. The boy child is no longer just in danger; he is dragging the entire region toward destruction. And yet, we watch. Helpless. Silent. Waiting for what?
He is now a self-made scientist in the art of self-destruction, constantly innovating new ways to ruin his own future. Once upon a time, chewing mairungi was a casual pastime, paired with chewing gum, gomba, or the classic Big G. Then, creativity struck. Groundnuts were added to the mix, followed by milk, because why not elevate the experience? But that was just the warm-up. Now, patience is a thing of the past, why waste time chewing when you can extract the madness directly? The latest innovation? Boiling mairungi into a potent “juice,” because their teeth, worn out from years of abuse, can no longer squeeze out the so-called nutrients. What they drink isn’t just a beverage; it’s a fast-track ticket to mental ruin. The obsession with getting “high enough” has turned them into chemists of self-destruction, perfecting the recipe for their own downfall. And we, the spectators, watch in horror, pretending it’s not happening.
West Nile is choking literally. The air in places like Mvaradri, Ediofe, Crab, Airfield and many other places is no longer just filled with dust and exhaust fumes; it carries the unmistakable stench of burning opium. You don’t have to see the smoker to know they’re there, the pungent aroma will introduce them before you do. And forget about secrecy; these days, young men light up in broad daylight, strolling through the streets like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Now, they have moved on to more sinister substances, the kind that sound like ingredients for a dark ritual rather than something a sane human would consume. Snake skin? Burn it and inhale. Gray hair? Shred it, mix it with snake skin, and light it up. Yes, you heard that right. The elders of some villages now live in fear, not because of wild animals or armed robbers, but because young men are hunting them for their hair and beards. The once-respected gray strands of wisdom have been reduced to a drug, a ticket to another high. Some old men, realizing the danger, have turned their misfortune into a business, selling their own hair to desperate addicts.
For those who find snake skin and gray hair too mild because apparently, getting high off human hair is now too mainstream, there’s Azangi, a demonic import from eastern Congo. This isn’t your average street drug. No, this is the nuclear bomb of intoxication. They say that one puff of Azangi rearranges your brain cells for six years. Six years! Imagine inhaling something today and still feeling its grip on your mind in 2031. But for those who think even that isn’t enough, there’s an upgrade: just tuck the Azangi flower into your pocket or inside your socks, and your brain will start playing tricks on you, no smoking required.
Schools, once temples of learning, have become breeding grounds for future junkies. I spent years in West Nile’s education system and saw it firsthand, classmates who couldn’t read a single page without taking a puff or chewing mairungi. The real tragedy? Most of them never made it past secondary school. Their final graduation was not into universities or careers but into the unforgiving streets, where they have since been “employed” as gangsters, unleashing havoc on innocent people. These aren’t just petty criminals; they are an organized syndicate, well-connected, well-trained, and constantly expanding.
They have their own “academies” in Vurra Custom, Arivu, Ajia, and beyond where new recruits learn the fine art of terrorizing innocent people. If they prove themselves worthy, they get promoted to Arua City, where they are assigned territories. Lose a phone at Hass? No need to call the police. The gang next to the former Terego House knows exactly where it is. Slip them some cash, and they’ll “track” it for you in 15 minutes. They are the crime lords, the law, and the justice system rolled into one, while the real authorities look on, powerless or complicit.
They are protected assets, shielded by connections so deep that even the long arm of the law dares not reach for them. And our leaders? Most are either blissfully ignorant or worse fully aware but conveniently looking the other way. Some even nurture these criminals, using them as weapons to silence opponents or as foot soldiers in their dirty political games. The real tragedy? We are watching it all unfold, helplessly. The streets belong to them now, and we are just cautious visitors, praying we don’t become the next unfortunate statistic.
So when chaos erupts at a football match in West Nile, why should we even act surprised? This isn’t just sports hooliganism, it’s an explosion of frustration, addiction, and lawlessness that has been brewing for years. The stadiums have become just another battleground, another arena for young men already wired on substances to unleash their rage. If we keep pretending it’s just “rowdy fans” or a “one-time incident,” we are fooling ourselves. West Nile’s boy child is spiraling into darkness and she is losing him.
The government needs to wake up now, before these small fires turn into an inferno that engulfs the entire region. Civil society organizations, religious leaders, politicians, cultural elders, civil servants—where are you? How long will you watch from the sidelines? If this madness does not jolt society into action, then we might as well prepare for the funeral of an entire generation. The boy child in West Nile is slipping away, and if we don’t act immediately, we will soon have nothing left to save.
Wake up, West Nile. Before it is too late.
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its no longer the bou child bt girl child too,,,,,,its really very sad hw evinings are no longer productive in arua as its a tym of comitment to drugs
This is beyond doubt the boy child is indeed slowly losing meaning and I don’t know if we will have fathers to father and raise a generation to face the world .This is indeed an eye opener and a boy child alert.
It’s pitty. Westnile to be even worse than Katamoja