Puff, Panic, and Pure Water: My Weed Misadventure with the Nigerian Police

 This is about the time I got myself into a ridiculous situation with weed and the Nigerian police—pure chaos, but the kind you laugh about later. Picture me, Chuks, your average Lagos guy in his late 20s, just trying to enjoy a chill evening in 2023. I’m not a big-time stoner, but every now and then, I like to light up a little something to take the edge off the city’s madness. This particular night, though, turned into a comedy show I didn’t sign up for.

It’s a Friday, and I’m at my friend Tunde’s place in Surulere. Tunde’s the kind of guy who always has a “guy” for everything—weed, suya, even fake designer shoes. He’d scored some decent stuff from his plug, and we’re in his backyard, passing a joint, vibing to some Burna Boy, and arguing about whether jollof rice from Ghana could ever beat Nigeria’s. The air’s thick with smoke, laughter, and the smell of roasted corn from the mai shai down the street. Life’s good, right? Wrong.

Out of nowhere, we hear this loud bang bang on the gate. My heart does a backflip. Tunde, cool as ever, whispers, “Relax, it’s probably just NEPA cutting the light again.” But then we hear, “Open this gate now! Police!” Oh, boy. My palms are sweaty, and the joint in my hand suddenly feels like a ticking bomb. Tunde, the idiot, starts giggling like we’re in a Nollywood comedy. “Chuks, hide the thing na,” he says, like I’m supposed to pull a Houdini with a lit spliff.

I toss the joint into a flowerpot, hoping it’ll magically disappear, and we both try to act normal as Tunde opens the gate. In swagger three policemen, all looking like they’ve had a long day and are ready to make ours longer. The leader, a stocky guy with a mustache that could star in its own movie, points his torchlight at us. “Wetin una dey do here? We smell something funny!” I’m thinking, Of course you do, officer, because I’m an idiot who didn’t put out the joint properly.

Tunde, bless his soul, goes into full Lagos boy mode. “Oga, good evening o! Na just us dey enjoy small breeze for backyard. You know how Surulere hot.” I nod like a bobblehead, trying to look innocent, but my eyes are probably redder than a tomato. Mustache Officer isn’t buying it. He starts sniffing around like a bloodhound, and before I know it, he’s standing over the flowerpot, where a tiny wisp of smoke is still curling up like it’s waving at him. I want to die.

“Wetin be this?” he barks, picking up the half-burnt joint like it’s evidence in a murder case. My stomach drops. Tunde, though, doesn’t miss a beat. “Oga, that one? Na herbal incense o! For mosquito! You know how mosquito plenty for Lagos.” I’m internally screaming because who’s going to believe that? But Tunde’s got this confidence that makes you question reality. The other two officers, younger guys who look like they’d rather be anywhere else, start chuckling.

Mustache Officer isn’t amused. “You think I be mumu? This na Igbo!” (That’s what they call weed around here.) He’s waving the joint in my face now, and I’m just praying for a miracle. I stammer, “Oga, I swear, we no dey smoke anything bad. Na just… stress relief.” Bad move. His eyes narrow. “Stress relief? Okay, we go relieve una stress for station.”

At this point, I’m picturing myself in a cell, sharing a bucket with some guy named Razor. But Tunde, the king of smooth, steps in. “Oga, abeg, make we settle this thing here. No need for station.” He’s already reaching for his pocket, and I know what’s coming—the universal language of Lagos: settlement. Mustache Officer’s face softens just a tiny bit. “How much una get?” he asks, like he’s pricing tomatoes at Mile 12 market.

Tunde pulls out 5,000 naira, which is like $3 these days, and I’m thinking, That’s it? We’re done for. But the officer scoffs. “You dey joke? For Igbo case? Minimum na 20k.” I almost choke. 20,000 naira? That’s my food budget for two weeks! Tunde, unfazed, starts negotiating like he’s at Computer Village. “Oga, abeg, na only small puff we puff. Make we do 10k, and we go add cold pure water for you.” The younger officers are now full-on laughing, and even Mustache cracks a smile.

After some back-and-forth, we settle at 12,000 naira and two bottles of Mirinda from Tunde’s fridge. Mustache pockets the cash, tucks the joint into his pocket (I swear he was planning to smoke it later), and warns us, “Next time, I no go smile o. Smoke your mosquito incense for inside house!” They leave, and Tunde and I collapse on the floor, laughing so hard I’m wheezing.

Later, over more corn and some Star beer, we’re replaying the whole thing, cracking up at how we almost got arrested over a flowerpot. Tunde’s like, “Chuks, your face when he picked up the joint? Priceless!” I’m just glad we didn’t end up in a cell. From that day, we made a rule: no more backyard sessions unless we’ve got a lookout. And I learned my lesson—never underestimate the power of a cold Mirinda and a smooth-talking friend in a Nigerian police situation.