"How many do you take a day?"
The journalist asked in a joking tone.

*Seventeen ni o*
The teenager replied.

Seventeen times he smoked that day.
A routine that continues till this moment.

Like an exhaust pipe,
He kept up the smoke emissions.
Like Sango, the Yoruba mythological god of thunder,
His eyes burned red and his mouth spouted fire.

One puff among friends had set off the spiral into a habit.
Triggering a degeneration into a life filled with painful regrets.
For he never could distinguish between reality and illusions. 

His concept of fear changed after that puff.
For a stream of vigor seeped into his bones
And a inhuman death defying courage took roots in his mind
His reality changed after that puff
For he ascended into a new plane. 

A place devoid of the recognition of pain.
A place where all actions were stripped of their good and evil tag.
A place where all people appeared the same
And the soldier looked very much like his fellow conductor.
A place where all reverence was gone.
And all women seen as tools to be exploited.

Puff after puff, He descended.
To the lowest depths of addiction; he tumbled .

Until he smoked his seventeen joints,
The world never truly made sense.

Until he smoked his seventeen joints,
Joy evaded his mind and peace eluded his thoughts. 

Until he smoked his seventeen joints,
Troubled thoughts plagued him as his hands trembled.

Beloved. Smoking of marijuana or weed, as it is popularly known, should be discouraged in all circles as it distorts reality and generally causes more harm than good.

okonta kosi