Ganja land. That is how many now describe Luanda, a bustling township in Vihiga County where the open trade and use of cannabis sativa (marijuana) has become part of daily life.
In its crowded streets and hidden alleys, young men puff openly, boda boda riders whisper about late-night deals, and police patrols often keep a cautious distance from neighbourhoods locals say are ruled more by drug gangs than by law.
Interior Cabinet Secretary Kipchumba Murkomen recently raised concern, describing Luanda as one of the country’s most volatile hotspots for bhang trade.
When he rose to speak at the Jukwaa la Usalama forum in Mbale, he was not telling locals anything new. His remarks merely confirmed what residents have long known—in Luanda Sub-county, cannabis sativa is more than a drug. It is a way of life, a shadow economy, and a silent destroyer of lives.
“As it is well known, Luanda is a hub of drugs, especially bhang, and we are on high alert as security agencies to help curb this,” Murkomen declared.
His statement was met with murmurs of agreement—and in some corners, ironic laughter. For many, the only surprise was that the government had chosen to acknowledge the problem publicly now after years of the menace.
Marijuana, locally known as “omusaala” (the tree), is traded openly with little resistance. At Luanda market, one elderly trader, Ernest Ombogo, shook his head with resignation when asked if it is true the township has become “drug land.”
“We have lived with this for years. You cannot walk down certain paths without smelling bhang smoke. The police pass there, but nothing happens. To us, it is business as usual,” he said.
Ombogo described narrow corridors in the township that are effectively out of bounds to strangers—let alone law enforcers. Some are tucked just next to the Luanda bus park, while others snake along the Luanda–Esiandumba–Akala road.
Here, peddlers trade discreetly, while others pose as touts on the Kisumu–Busia highway. “To enter those alleys, you must know someone who can pass you off as their companion,” Ombogo explained.
He added that some bhang sellers disguise themselves as mentally challenged individuals who loiter near dustbins and filthy corners during market days on Monday and Thursday.
“Most of them dress in rags with unkempt hair, pretending to be unstable. But in the evening, they clean up and celebrate their profits from drug sales,” said Ombogo.
In Luanda, a roll of bhang go for as little as Sh20, making it easily accessible. But the casual acceptance of cannabis comes with devastating consequences. Beneath the haze of smoke lies a trail of broken lives, violent crime and rising mental illness.
Vihiga County health records show that more than 9,400 patients are currently undergoing psychiatric treatment, with the majority concentrated in Luanda and neighbouring Emuhaya. Substance abuse is the common factor.
A senior county health officer explained that most cases start with casual drug use before escalating into full-blown psychosis.
“Some patients, barely out of their teenage years, arrive in states of delirium, screaming or violent, their families too ashamed to seek help until it is too late. Drug-induced psychosis is real, and it is destroying our youth, ” said Wafula Cheng’oli from the County Health Services Department.
Murkomen linked these figures directly to bhang abuse, citing National Authority for the Campaign Against Alcohol and Drug Abuse (Nacada) reports that placed Vihiga among the counties with the highest levels of drug use, with Luanda singled out as the epicentre.
Cost of treatment
A 2022 Nacada survey confirmed the crisis, showing that Western Kenya has the highest prevalence of drug use in the country, with some residents admitting to regular use. The region had a lifetime cannabis use prevalence of 2.2 per cent, suspected to be concentrated in Luanda.
“To some, when you want to arrest them, you are told they are mad,” said Murkomen when quizzed by the press on why they are not arresting the peddlers or users of the drug.
For families, the burden is crushing. With Vihiga lacking a psychiatric hospital, most are forced to seek help in Kisumu or Kakamega.
For poor households, the costs of travel, medication and supervision of mentally ill relatives are unbearable.
Many end up abandoning their loved ones, who roam Luanda’s streets, and labelled as “mad people.” The bhang crisis has also fueled crime. What began as youth and boda boda rider groups—such as Reggae Defenders and Usiku Sacco—once mobilizing for funerals and solidarity, have morphed into violent outfits.
The groups are made up of boda boda riders who share one common identity—the Rastafarian culture. In Luanda’s streets, reggae music and the red, gold and green colours of Rastafarians are common, worn by youths who openly puff bhang.
At funerals, groups of young men casually share rolls of bhang, while marketplaces reek of the drug long after closing hours. “It is like tea here,” joked a resident of Ebusakami village near Luanda.
But behind the reggae colours, lies bitter truth. The groups, according to residents, have become criminal gangs.
Last year, then County Commissioner Felix Watakila disbanded them, calling them criminals in the name of responsible youths.
“They smoke bhang, steal, maim and rape women,” Watakila said at a charged public baraza. The administrator noted that police intelligence reports placed the gang members between 15 and 25, many unemployed and disillusioned.
When attending the funeral of one of their own, the Reggae Defenders turn the event into a loud affair, marked by motorbike processions, booming reggae music and comrades openly displaying loyalty.
Even with the ban, on Fridays, the youth can still be seen escorting a funeral procession with loud music and drugs in their mouths.
The boda boda sector has been hit hard by the unchecked rise of gangs associated with drug use. In the past year alone, police reports show at least 20 riders and one community policing member have been murdered by machete-wielding gangs, their bodies dumped by roadsides or in plantations across Luanda and neighbouring Emuhaya Sub-County.
“For riders, it’s like signing a death sentence. Every other week, we bury one of our own. The police move too slowly, and the criminals seem untouchable,” said Dan Shikutse, chair of a local riders’ association.
Larger supply chain
Last year, one victim of the Reggae Defenders gang was a 35-year-old father of four, Shem Omoko. After delivering supper at home, he left for work. Hours later, his wife, Dinah Aono, got a call—his body had been found with deep skull cuts, his phone stolen, his motorbike curiously untouched.
“I was left with four children and no husband,” regrets Aono.
Fear now keeps most non-drug using riders off the roads at night as they dread being harmed by their colleagues under influence.
Even as CS Murkomen branded Luanda as “ganja land” on September 6, 2025 in neighbouring Mbale town, it rang true when boda boda riders set ablaze a matatu after an accident on the Kisumu–Busia highway, before looting a trailer carrying soft drinks.
Ironically, the matatu was co-owned by the riders, and many only realised this after it was reduced to ashes—suggesting they might have been under the influence.
“They were openly smoking bhang as they caused the chaos,” recalled one eyewitness, Fredrick Omolo.
Residents believe behind Luanda’s gangs lies a larger supply chain. Officials admit bhang is brought from Uganda, with Luanda serving as a key distribution hub in Western Kenya.
In September 2023, police publicly destroyed over Sh1.4 million worth of seized substances, including chang’aa, bhang rolls, bhang seeds and illicit cigarettes.
Just last month, police officers from Luanda Police Station in Vihiga County conducted a successful operation in Emabungo Location following a tip-off about suspicious cartons left behind by an unknown motorcycle rider.
Upon arriving at the scene, officers inspected the boxes and discovered 16 bales of suspected bhang, weighing 40 kilogrammes. The narcotics were seized as exhibits, and investigations were launched to establish the identity and whereabouts of the motorcycle rider.
Yet locals say the trade always resurfaces within days after such raids. “It is like cutting grass; you burn one side, and next week, it grows back,” says Mary Kaveza, a resident of Luanda. Concerns have been that the sale also targets university students especially at Maseno. Churches, too, have not been spared.
In 2023 and 2024, thieves broke into Emukhuyu Salvation Army and Emukhuyu Pentecostal Assemblies of God (PAG), stealing cables, curtains and furniture.
In one case, the gang defiled the altar by answering the call of nature there, while also roasting stolen green maize inside the church, using the holy flagpost as firewood.
Captain Joyce Anzaye of the Salvation Army called the incident deeply disturbing and blamed it on eroded morals and possible use of drugs among the youths.
“The thieves didn’t just want property; they wanted to ridicule us, making you wonder if they were under the influence,” she said.
With little action from law enforcers to stop the menace, speculations persist that some gangs enjoy police protection. Residents openly allege that rogue police officers collect bribes—or even act as silent shareholders in the trade.
Police, on their side, admit that certain neighbourhoods are now “no-go zones,” where gangs operate with impunity.
Luanda Member of Parliament Dickson Maungu has on several occasions demanded transfer of officers who have overstayed in the area, accusing them of collusion with peddlers and the gangs.