By Ahmed ABC
I come from a middle-class Nigerian family — not wealthy, not struggling, just average. My parents were civil servants, hardworking and principled. They raised me with love, values, and hope for a stable future. But sometimes, even a strong foundation can be shaken by the weight of peer pressure, false glamour, and the search for belonging.
My slide into drug use didn’t start in some dark alley. It began in brightly lit rooms and gated estates — with the children of the rich. Weed was the first invitation. It was easy, fun, and “cool.” From there, the door opened to ecstasy, molly, LSD, and then cocaine. The highs were euphoric — brief escapes from the emptiness many of us didn’t want to face.
I watched friends overdose. I watched some go mad. One of my closest companions died of a heroin overdose right before my eyes, a son of a popular politician (name withheld). We were just 20.
That moment shattered something in me. I looked in the mirror the next morning and didn’t recognize myself — hollow eyes, pale skin, trembling hands. I knew that if I didn’t stop, I would end up in a coffin or a psychiatric ward.
But stopping was a war.
I went cold turkey. I shut myself in my room, trembling through withdrawals. I cut off every friend still using. I confessed everything to my parents — the shame, the secrets, the near-misses. They were heartbroken, but they stood by me. Their love became my anchor, particularly my mother.
Recovery wasn’t linear. Some days I wanted to relapse. Some nights I cried myself to sleep. But slowly, through prayer, journaling, volunteering, and therapy, I began to heal. I rediscovered books, music, laughter — life.
Today, I’ve been clean for over three years. I’m back in school, studying psychology. I speak at schools and youth groups — not as a saint, but as someone who walked through hell and made it out.
I share my story because many people are still stuck where I was — deceived by the illusion that drugs equal freedom, or that only “street kids” become addicts. It’s a lie. Drugs don’t discriminate. They don’t care whether you live in Maitama, Asokoro or Mpape. They only care about taking everything from you — your health, your mind, your future.
I was lucky. I survived. But many don’t.
If you’re struggling or someone you love is, know this: there is a way back. It’s not easy, but it’s possible. You are not alone. Speak up. Ask for help. Choose life.
My name is Ahmed ABC. I am a survivor — not because I’m better, but because I got a second chance. If you’re reading this, maybe this is yours.
Editor’s Note: If you or someone you know is dealing with drug addiction, call [Insert national helpline or support contact info here] for help. Recovery is possible, and help is available.