Sierra Leone’s Quiet Trade: Inside the World of Jamba

In Sierra Leone, everybody knows someone who deals with Jamba. Whether it’s a boy down the street, a farmer in the provinces, or an uncle who quietly smokes in the back of the house, Jamba, our local name for cannabis, has become part of daily life in ways we rarely speak about openly. It’s illegal, yes, but it’s also everywhere. And like many things in this country, its story is not just about crime; it’s about struggle, survival, and a forgotten kind of healing that has existed long before Western medicine knew its name.  

In the small towns and far-off villages, Jamba is grown like any other crop. Sometimes it’s hidden among cassava and groundnut plants. Sometimes it's not hidden at all; just far enough from the main road that no one will bother asking questions. For many farmers, planting cannabis is a decision born out of necessity. Corn and palm oil might fetch a few leones, but Jamba carries more weight, sometimes literally. It’s not just a cash crop; for some, it’s a medicine cabinet. The older women boil it in soups for joint pain. The herbalists grind it into pastes for wounds. The rastas mix it into teas for breathing problems. Its uses are many, even if we don't talk about them with pride.  

But even in its power to help, the plant comes with a burden. The ones who grow and move it; the young boys, the street-level sellers, the desperate; are often the ones who pay the highest price. They’re used, discarded, and forgotten. Some are promised money, only to receive scraps. Others are drawn in by the promise of healing their minds or their bodies, only to be thrown in jail for trying. And when the police come, it’s not the high-ranking dealers or the corrupt officials they take in. It’s the small people, the vulnerable ones, who end up behind bars, their lives paused indefinitely.  

Still, the plant travels quietly and cleverly. Hidden in coal bags, folded into banana piles, mixed with pepper and slid beneath poda-poda seats. From the green hills of Koinadugu to the dusty corners of Kroo Bay, Jamba moves through our country like a ghost. And its purpose changes with every hand it touches. For the stressed-out worker, it brings relief. For the cancer patient in a far-off village with no morphine, it dulls the pain. For the anxious youth who can’t sleep, it brings a few hours of peace.  

In the city, Jamba straddles the line between vice and virtue. For many, it’s the thing that keeps their mind steady in a country that often feels unbearable. “It calms my head,” they say. And maybe it does. Maybe it soothes nerves that clinics won’t treat, quiets the trauma that therapy can’t reach. But stigma surrounds it like smoke. Society refuses to see the human beneath the habit. The man using it to manage seizures. The woman brewing it into tea for her insomnia. Instead, they’re lumped into one group; “wayward.” And so, their stories go unheard.  

Meanwhile, the law remains trapped in time. Outdated, blind to nuance. Harsh on the poor, gentle on the connected. You can be locked away for possessing a few wraps, even if those wraps were the only thing helping you cope with back pain or post-trauma headaches. At the same time, some of the very people enforcing these laws indulge quietly in their homes, far from the eyes of consequence.  

Globally, the conversation around cannabis has changed. It’s being studied for its anti-inflammatory properties, its ability to treat epilepsy, chronic pain, PTSD, anxiety. Countries are rethinking their laws, opening doors to a plant they once feared. But here in Sierra Leone, we still view it through one lens: criminality. We’ve yet to ask the real questions. Can it help our people? Can it ease the pressure on our underfunded healthcare system? Can we build community programs that regulate its use while preserving its benefits?  

Jamba is not just a high. It's not just a trade. It’s a plant with roots in medicine, culture, and survival. Maybe it’s time to approach it with honesty, curiosity, and respect. To stop criminalizing the symptoms and start addressing the causes. Because in truth, this is not a story about weed. It’s a story about people real people trying to live, to cope, to heal. And maybe, just maybe, the very leaf we’ve condemned holds more answers than we think.