60. When the Day Breaks, I Will Phone My Dealer

On psychoactive drugs, drug dealers and the Nigerian youth.

Canada is a desired destination for disgruntled Nigerians. It sits in our consciousness, horse-shoed in our lofty migratory aspirations. Hordes of upwardly mobile Nigerian youth have responded to Canada’s call, including my sister and her husband, two bright lawyers who loved Lagos. At some point, they appraised their careers, read the tea leaves (or was it the sky over the lagoon one of those humid evenings stuck in Friday traffic?), and tapped out.

To the little-travelled Nigerian given to finding self-help on amateur DIY vlogs, they say brace yourself for the Canadian cold. As we speak, empowered Nigerian healthcare practitioners in the UK are executing the second phase of their migration. They call it Japa 2.0, the act of physically relocating your body (appropriately identified with a British passport) to Canada for a better life. I already said Canada is a desired destination for Nigerians.

Trust our contemporary music to respond as appropriate. Praise songs for Canada abound. New to the programme, start with Magnito’s ‘Canada Remix’ and Olamide’s playful verse. Or Lojay’s thrilling Amapiano bop, ‘Canada’, where his dirty muse returns to the strip club and an unnamed dancer on a pole, offering sex to raise money for Japa to go to Canada.

The disillusioned Nigerian youth do not care for that physical strip of land in North America called Canada. They visit a different kind of Canada with fewer logistic demands. Visiting requires no travel documents; one only requires a dealer and, perhaps, a good credit rating.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. This is how Allen Ginsberg begins his famous poem, Howl. This sentiment also holds for many Nigerians of my age. I have friends, classmates, and colleagues who have succumbed to mental illness; their gateway was drugs. I haven’t evaluated how this may have influenced my choice of psychiatry, but being a psychiatrist merely helps one to see better the prodrome, the signs, and the sequelae of mental illness.

The relationship between psychoactive drugs and mental illness is a complex one. It often charges debates, academic, moral and social. Every serious society that takes health seriously understands that safeguarding the minds of the youth is a task that must be done. Nigeria is not a serious society.

Siri, play Science Student for me. Olamide’s 2018 hit song is part social commentary and glib critique of the drug scourge. Whilst saluting the ingenuity and resourcefulness of youth in designing/conjuring/inventing chemicals to get high, Olamide describes the destination of a drug-addled individual: it is the opposite of health. It is debt. It is failing physical health. It is becoming homeless, helpless, and sometimes hopeless. It sometimes leads down dark corridors of mental decline. It is Aro. It is Yaba Left. Cavernous places where the void swallows your screams.

Those who critique Afrobeats for lacking substance fail to understand the genre’s complexity and range. They probably don’t listen enough to the music. They may not have heard ‘Addict’, Kizz Daniel’s song on his exceptional Barnabas EP, which deals with the inner psyche of a drug user. It is the first time I hear a dealer in an Afrobeats song. The song persona has called his dealer to bring him what is ostensibly his last hit before he quits for good. Sparse and moody productions give room for the song’s lyrics, a statement on how dysphoria was previously tackled with debauchery. Listen for yourself. This notion of escapism is not rare in Afrobeats. One may check out quickly and frequently from life with drugs. But addiction sets in when you no longer wish to return to life. At this point, the brain is fully rewired for that drug-induced dopamine hit.

Enter the Dealer, cutting through Lagos traffic on an okada, bag slung around his waist. In that bag, there is escape: endorphins and an endless supply of floaters ferrying you in and out of doomed reality. The dealer becomes a trustee once you develop an addiction. The trusted dealer does not offer any services out of altruism. The dealer demands collateral when you are no longer creditworthy. Collateral can be physical or soft, exchanging body fluids and sexual gratification inclusive. Once psychoactive drugs have taken one’s essence and achieved primacy, the dealer is on speed dial.

Kaestyle’s ‘My Dealer’ was one of the breakthrough songs of last year. With two remixes featuring Omah Lay and Kizz Daniel, ‘My Dealer’ is ostensibly about a character who wants to enter Canada because his lover, Abena, has soured his mood. Omah Lay’s verse shines through with the descriptive couplet about “the kele wey say she learn economics/She has been helping me spend all money”. That description ties the contradiction of the femme fatale and, indeed, the fate of this gentleman whose broken heart would even cost him more; dealers don’t run a charity.

Another standout song last year was Ayo Maff’s breakout, Dealer, featuring Fireboy DML. I have written extensively and enthusiastically about Ayo Maff, whose take on Street Hop brings me joy. I enjoy his use of Yoruba gospel and vibrant street slang to conjure reality. I am particularly struck by the chorus, “Cana ṣá ni, ka ma ṣá/Ọmọ oro mi, ma lọ sa/Ti'lẹ bati mọ, ma pe dealer mi/Ti'lẹ bati mọ, ma pe dealer mi”. What is repeated in this chorus is significant. When the day breaks, I will phone my dealer. When the day breaks, I will phone my dealer.