Murkomen is right; police alone can’t end Vihiga’s marijuana nightmare

The recent visit to Vihiga County by Interior Cabinet Secretary Kipchumba Murkomen has sparked conversations that many in the region have for years chosen to avoid. During his stop in Luanda town, he made a blunt but honest remark: Marijuana use has become so deeply entrenched in the community that policing alone cannot eradicate it. His words unsettled some, but they rang true. The drug menace in Luanda is no longer confined to whispers; it has grown into a crisis that now defines public life and demands urgent, collective action.

Mr Murkomen also highlighted a troubling reality—that Vihiga County records a disproportionately high number of patients suffering from mental disorders, many of whom have a history of drug abuse. This fact alone should sound alarm bells across the region. When a community becomes associated with mental instability, violence, and wasted potential, then the crisis is no longer simply medical. It takes on a social, cultural, and economic dimension that undermines the very foundation of society.

In Luanda, marijuana has acquired an almost deceptive sense of normalcy. Locally referred to as omusala—loosely translated as medicine—it is woven into everyday life. Yet the irony is both painful and dangerous. Far from healing, this so-called “medicine” has inflicted lasting damage on individuals and the wider community. Families have been broken, schools have lost bright students, and once-promising futures have been reduced to despair.

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Growing up in rural Vihiga, many of us saw first-hand how marijuana derailed young lives. Boys who once showed promise in school began smoking, dropped out, and disappeared into a haze of wasted years. Today, the trend has spread even to young girls, widening the scope of damage. What often begins as a casual experiment soon grows into dependency, violent behaviour, or shattered ambition. Futures that should be defined by education, work, and contribution to society are quietly stolen by a leaf falsely glorified as harmless.

The consequences are evident on Luanda’s streets. Idle young men, sometimes armed with machetes, loiter around, unpredictable and often violent at the slightest provocation. Parents are left helpless, teachers demoralised, and local leaders overwhelmed. Schools record higher dropout rates, families mourn wasted opportunities, and the community suffers under a weight of fear and stigma.

Indeed, the stigma has become a heavy burden. The association of Luanda with marijuana is now so notorious and even mentioning that are from the area invites ridicule. On several occasions, when I have said I am from Bunyore, where Luanda lies, the response has been painfully predictable. Strangers, often with a smirk, remark, “Mbekho omusala”—a mocking request to pass the marijuana cigarette. Outwardly, I might smile, but inwardly I feel a sting of shame. That a whole community’s identity is reduced to a reputation for drug abuse is humiliating. Yet this stereotype, unfair as it may be, is born of a truth too long ignored.

The CS was right: Police operations alone will not suffice. Over the years, raids have been carried out, plants uprooted, and arrests made. Still, marijuana continues to thrive. The reason is clear—the problem is cultural as much as it is criminal. Marijuana has been socialised into the daily life of the community, with some residents even convinced it is harmless or medicinal. To dismantle this entrenched acceptance, the people of Vihiga must begin to see marijuana not as a benign cultural habit but as a destructive force robbing them of health, dignity, and opportunity.

Real change will only happen when families speak out against its use, when schools amplify awareness of its dangers, and when churches, civil society, and political leaders unite to reject its normalisation. 

Luanda’s crisis mirrors what has been unfolding in Central Kenya, where alcohol addiction has hollowed out families and livelihoods. Just as alcohol has left deep scars in Central, marijuana threatens to do the same in Vihiga. Both regions face a sobering question: Will they allow substance abuse to dictate their destiny, or will they rise to reclaim their future?

The people of Luanda and Vihiga County must now confront a defining choice. Will they remain on the path of destruction, or will they confront the menace head-on? The time for denial and silence is over. Murkomen’s remarks, though blunt, should be taken as a turning point—a wake-up call that forces residents to act. Vihiga must rise to the occasion. The future of its youth,  families, and its identity depends on it.

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