One Sunday evening, I dropped by a friend’s lodge. He wasn’t around, but someone else was—a man who carried the unmistakable scent of cannabis and the confident ease of someone who was there on unofficial business. From the end of the corridor, the aroma of weed floated freely, lacing the air with its skunky signature. It was impossible to ignore. Neither were the frequent handshakes being exchanged with a smallish man whose presence seemed to command attention.

But what caught me most off guard wasn’t the weed or the dealer. It was the music.

As one customer received his order, he broke into a gritty, almost devotional chorus from Llona’s “Comforter”:

“Only my dealer be my comforter…”

The hallway erupted in cheers and laughter. A moment that blended comedy, culture, and quiet rebellion. In that instant, something clicked: this wasn’t just about getting high. It was about identity, about solace, and about a growing subculture that’s being sparked by Nigerian artists who’ve flipped the script on weed, giving it new life as a badge of creative resistance.

Cannabis use in Nigeria is illegal. Under the Indian Hemp Act and the NDLEA Act, possession alone can earn you time in prison and yet it’s everywhere. On the streets, in clubs, at university hostels, and increasingly, in music. Artists like Odumodublvck, Bella Shmurda, Monaky have built reputations as being “session approved music” and a host of underground rappers and Afro-fusion crooners have woven weed into their lyrics, lifestyles, and lore.

For many youths, weed is no longer just an illicit substance. It’s cultural currency. It’s inspiration. It’s the comforter.

The law stands but the people smoke. Not in secret corners or coded whispers—but openly, in songs, tweets, Instagram stories, and street corners.

What used to be whispered in coded language, and various street lingo i s now screamed through speakers across the country. There’s a wild contradiction playing out. On paper, the law is clear. In practice, weed is everywhere. University hostels, music studios, “coded” cafés, luxury apartments, and even certain church zones (don’t ask) have all become quiet hubs for Nigeria’s cannabis culture.

And the soundtrack? Afrobeat, street-hop, alté, rap. It’s loud. It’s raw. It’s reflective. Both in their music and other ventures of their life. Of recent, Asake launched his Cannabis brand ‘GiranEnergy 5k’ available in California, a precedent set by Burnaboy when the superstar brought out a limited edition brand, Breakfast,

So if it’s illegal, why is it so popular?

The answer is layered. First, enforcement is wildly inconsistent. The NDLEA may swoop down hard on a street dealer, but the rich and famous? They party in peace. I mean there’s various video evidence of stars smoking on stage or even with police exports, yet nothing is done while young boys are harassed for merely holding a lighter.. Second, cannabis is easy to grow in Nigeria—local strains thrive in rural farms from Ondo to Benue. Third, and most importantly, the law has become disconnected from the lived reality of the youth.

There’s a growing sense among Nigerians under 35 that weed is no more dangerous than alcohol, and probably less so. Many have seen the contradictions firsthand: police who arrest with one hand and smoke with the other. Lecturers who preach against “Indian hemp” in class but joke about “loud” in the staffroom. Not minding the fact that many of our ‘people in power’ have at one time or the other been allegedly linked to cannabis farms across the country and abroad as well as importation rings.

The result? The law has lost its bite, even if the teeth remain.

For creatives, especially those in music and visual art, weed is often described as a muse. It slows time, softens noise, deepens feeling. It turns the ordinary into the spiritual. Whether it’s actually the weed doing this or just the belief in it, the outcome is the same: a ritual that helps creatives tap into something larger than themselves.

Of course, not all creatives use. And not all who do have positive experiences. Weed isn’t some magical leaf with no side effects. No that’s a lettuce or ugwu leaves. There are stories of paranoia, of creative burnout, of dependency. And the most obvious various health implications although there are still shouts that THC consumers still live long especially natural users in countries like Jamaica and the likes. However the reality is stll your are inhaling smoke. But those conversations happen quietly, if at all.

What dominates the narrative right now is the idea of freedom. In a country with so many boundaries—economic, emotional, creative—weed, for many, represents a small, personal rebellion. And in artist I interviewed a while back he calls it his expression of “having his way”

Legalizing cannabis is still a distant dream in Nigeria, but it’s a conversation worth having. In early 2019, the Governor of Ondo State, Rotimi Akeredolu, proposed the legalization of cannabis growing in his state for medical use to no avail. And other African countries like South Africa and Rwanda have taken steps toward regulation. Ghana is inching closer. And globally, attitudes are softening.

Legalization could bring in revenue, create jobs, and unclog prisons filled with low-level weed offenders. It could also allow for proper education around safe use, addiction, and public health.

But is Nigeria ready? That’s the million-naira question. Critics argue that poor regulation, abuse, and corruption could make things worse. Others believe that with the right structure, Nigeria could transform a black market into a green economy.

For now, though, the country is stuck in limbo. The people smoke. The law frowns. The music plays.

Back in that lodge, the room felt like a song no one was rushing to end. The smell of cannabis still hung in the air, but so did something else—ease. That little bubble of comfort, laughter, and music. It wasn’t legal. But it was real.

And maybe, just maybe, Nigeria needs to stop pretending it isn’t happening and start talking about why it is!