This report examines concerns raised by health and human rights advocates that Nigeria’s punitive approach exposes people who use drugs to hardship and hinders their access to support.

Joshua Samson grew up in a small community in Kaduna State, where drug abuse among young people was common. Substances like codeine, tramadol, and rohypnol were easily accessible and widely abused.

As a teenager who loved rap music and enjoyed writing, he was drawn to the lifestyle due to the constant pressure to feel among. The older boys in the area often gathered to smoke and portrayed drug use as a source of creative inspiration. Many young people like him came to believe in this.

Joshua tried marijuana after junior secondary school. From there, he progressed to weed mixed with codeine, then cigarettes, and soon, pills like Rochi, Blue Boy, and Bonninga Pi. Music videos glorifying drug use fueled the illusion. To Joshua, it felt like he was unlocking a better version of himself. In reality, he was spiralling into drug dependence.

When he gained admission into university, he thought he had a chance to start over. Tired of being the embarrassment he encountered as a drug user, he gave it up. But in its place came Tramadol.

At first, it seemed like a safer alternative. But Tramadol tightened its grip on him fast. Even as he advanced through school and finished National Youth Service Corp (NYSC), he couldn’t function without it. Skipping a dose brought on migraines, cold sweats, and intense itching. “My body would start to shut down,” he said.

Salvation Mathew grew up in a Christian home in Mararaba, Nasarawa State. His father is a pastor.  In 2007, during his time in boarding school, Salvation was first introduced to substances. It started with palm wine, given to him by a senior. Soon, he found himself in the company of boys who smoked weed and experimented with drugs like Tramadol.

Salvation recalled how they would sneak into the bush after school hours to take these substances. One of his earliest influences was a student nicknamed Black Shadow. What began as occasional use quickly became a habit. His friends distanced themselves. His family, heartbroken and confused, began to treat him like an outcast. The trust was gone.

“I couldn’t even ask my dad for money,” he said. “He would rather go do it himself.”

As his dependence on the drugs deepened, things worsened during his Higher National Diploma (HND) in Lafia. There, he said he met another student from Cameroon who introduced him to heavier use. Salvation said he became fully dependent, unable to do anything without drugs.

One day, while preparing for lectures, he took Tramadol and blacked out in the classroom. He woke up to bruises on his body and laughter from classmates who had recorded the incident. That video eventually reached home through a cousin, prompting threats from his father to send him back to the village.

“That moment hit me hard,” Salvation said. “I knew I had to change.”

The journeys of Joshua and Salvation underscore how easily young people can slip into the world of substance use, often lured in by peer pressure, social influence, and a lack of guidance. What begins as occasional experimentation, often out of a desire to fit in or escape, quickly snowballs into full-blown dependence.

By the time they recognise the damage, the dependence has already tightened its grip. Attempts to quit are rarely easy; they come with withdrawal pains, emotional isolation, and in many cases, deep-seated stigma.

Treated like criminals

Even before he entered university, Joshua had already had his first devastating encounter with law enforcement.

As a teenager in Kaduna, Joshua said he and some friends were hanging out at their usual spot getting high when police raided the area. In the chaos, he, a friend, and a girl fell into stagnant water. Joshua swam out, but lost his phone, money, and shoe. The girl didn’t make it. “One of the girls who was with us got arrested. We had to raise money to bail her out,” he recalled. That day left a mark on him.

But it wouldn’t be his last encounter.

In December 2018, just after his youth service, Joshua said he was heading home late with colleagues when plainclothes officers stopped them.

“They told us to come down. One of them dropped something in the car and accused us of being armed robbers,” Joshua said. “They beat us mercilessly.”

He said the officers dragged them to a secluded area, took their phones, cleared their bank accounts, and even stole snacks and a wristwatch. “They slapped me, hit me with a gun, and left us like animals,” he said.

“I’ll never forget that date—December 23rd, 2018,” he said. “They had someone ready to receive the money from our accounts. It was all planned.”

Two years later, it happened again.

In 2020, after leaving a shopping mall in Abuja, Joshua recalled one of the girls in his group lit a cigarette while they waited for a ride. That was all it took. Black-clad officers swooped in.

“They didn’t ask questions. Just started shouting and bundled us into a truck,” he said.

According to Joshua, a girl was slapped for asking about her wig inside the vehicle. Another had her phone smashed by a boot. They were taken to Life Camp Police Station. This time, they got lucky. A senior officer listened.

“He asked them, ‘What did these people do?’ They couldn’t even answer. That’s how we were released.”

But the trauma stuck with him. Being treated like a criminal again and again left deep scars.

Salvation also had his share of experience. During one incident, a group of boys were arrested after a neighbourhood fight. His father came to the station to bail him, but turned away in disappointment after learning he had smoked before the fight. “He left me there,” Salvation recalled. “That broke me.”

He spent three nights in a crowded police cell—21 boys in a space meant for a few, filled with mosquitoes and more drugs.

His mother, desperate to save him, eventually called a relative who paid for his release. But the damage was done. His father, a respected teacher and pastor, said he no longer wanted anything to do with him.

Criminalisation of drug use in Nigeria 

Nigeria is one of the countries that criminalise personal drug use and possession, treating it primarily as a criminal justice issue rather than a public health concern.

Under the country’s current legal framework, especially the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) Act and related penal laws, individuals found in possession of illicit drugs, even in small amounts meant for personal use, are often arrested, prosecuted, and jailed.

Drug users, particularly those from marginalised communities, are frequently subjected to arbitrary arrests, prolonged pre-trial detentions, and overcrowded prison conditions. There have been documented cases of torture, extortion, and degrading treatment during arrest and detention. Worse still, people who use drugs (PWUD) are often denied access to healthcare, education, housing, and employment due to stigma and discrimination.

For instance, a YouthRISE Nigeria report examining the impact of Nigerian drug laws on the rights of people who use drugs (PWUD) highlighted frequent police abuses. These include arbitrary arrests and detention, extortion, physical and sexual assault, and neglect, all of which amount to human rights violations.

The National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) was established under the 1989 NDLEA Act, which was amended in 2004. The agency is responsible for combating the cultivation, manufacture, sale, and trafficking of hard drugs. The Act criminalises drug possession and use, with penalties ranging from 15 to 25 years in prison.

Although the law allows for diversion to treatment or rehabilitation in place of imprisonment, this is mostly inplemented in appliication to minors. Offences such as trafficking and production, which were previously punishable by death, now attract life imprisonment.

Experts have said this criminal justice approach has failed to reduce drug use or address its root causes. Instead, it has driven drug use underground, making it harder for individuals to seek help or access health and social services. They said criminalisation also contributes to the cycle of poverty and marginalisation, particularly when former detainees return to society with a criminal record and no support system.

Journey to recovery

In 2017, Joshua reconnected with an NGO he had encountered back in his third year. He started volunteering there and attending group therapy sessions. “But the therapists didn’t have the answers I needed,” Joshua said. “They’d say things like, ‘Try exercise,’ but I needed more than that.”

He tried to fight back in his own way. He buried himself in online courses, hoping productivity would push the cravings away. But the withdrawal symptoms were brutal. “Sometimes, I’d hear my bones cracking. I’d feel like there is a hole inside my bones,” he said. “If I resisted the urge, I’d get a migraine so bad, no drug could stop it—except Tramadol.”

Seeing his struggle, one therapist invited Joshua to live with him. The man’s family lived in Kwara, so there was space. Joshua hoped it would help. But even there, he found ways to sneak out and buy the pills. “I’d lie. Sometimes I’d have the drugs in my pocket while talking to him.”

Eventually, the lockdown in 2020 gave him the pause he needed. Life slowed down. He noticed he didn’t need as much Tramadol anymore—his body wasn’t as active. “That’s when I started cutting down. One or two pills were enough. Then I realised I could try to stop completely.”

He began focusing on self-development and reconnected with advocates in the drug harm reduction space. He volunteered at IDP camps and schools, telling his story.

“I knew I had to stop. I read up on the dangers, such as infertility, heart failure, and sexual dysfunction. Tramadol wasn’t giving me life. It was taking it,” he said, “I tell young people the truth: it doesn’t make you strong. It kills you slowly. There’s nothing glamorous about drug dependence. I’ve lived it.”

For salvation, reality hit him in 2020 when he lost his father. As the first son in a family of four children, with only his mother left, he was suddenly the man of the house. But how could he lead when he was battling his own demons? Worse still was the stigma. Even when he started trying to change, the whispers never stopped.

“Anytime I go back to my old area, some people still say, ‘Hope you no dey do that thing again?’” he said. “I just laugh. But it hurts.”

The turnaround didn’t come overnight. He began attending counselling sessions at YouthRISE Nigeria, where he was introduced to healthier coping mechanisms.

One of the most impactful steps he took was physically moving out of his old environment. The influence, the accessibility of drugs, the peer pressure—all of it was tied to the streets he once called home. “Relocating changed everything for me,” he said. “Now, going back there takes effort, and I don’t do it often. It helped me cut off those triggers.”

Today, he works in furniture-making alongside his best friend in a Furniture Market in Abuja. Together, they’re running their work like a proper business, growing steadily.

“I haven’t touched drugs in four years,” he said proudly. “Even beer, I barely touch. Maybe once in a month, and I don’t even finish the bottle.”

Though the stigma hasn’t completely vanished, he has regained respect, especially from those who once saw him as the “bad egg.”

“It takes the grace of God to leave that life. And it takes surrounding yourself with the right people. The environment matters a lot. The people around you matter even more, he concluded.

Experts advocate for decriminalisation, harm reduction 

Experts say there is a need for Nigeria to embrace a harm reduction approach, which offers a more humane, evidence-based alternative. Harm reduction policies focus on minimising the negative health, social, and legal impacts of drug use.

The country launched the fourth iteration of the National Drug Control Master Plan for the period 2021-2025 on December 06, 2021. Harm reduction has for the first time been specifically mentioned in this latest version. As strategy C of Pillar 2, under the title of “Harm Reduction Priorities”, the policy seeks to: implement a full package of harm reduction services, develop a drug overdose management programme, and strengthen data management systems.

Harm reduction has only recently been introduced in the country’s official drug policy document: The National Drug Control Master Plan 2021-2025. As such, resources for people who use drugs in Nigeria are extremely limited and difficult to access.

The Master Plan outlines in detail harm reduction services that need to be implemented includes 1Needle and Syringe Programmes (NSP), Medically Assisted Therapy (MAT) and other evidence-based drug dependence treatment, HIV Testing Services (HTS); Antiretroviral Therapy (ART), Prevention and treatment of sexually transmitted infections (STIs), Condom distribution programmes for people who inject drugs and their sexual partners and Targeted information, education and communication (IEC) for people who inject drugs and their sexual partners.

Speaking with The ICIR, David Olofu, a decriminalisation advocate, criticised the country’s punitive drug laws, arguing they obstruct the delivery of harm reduction services and fuel stigma against those trying to help people who use drugs.

“Criminalisation actually hinders effective harm reduction services because sometimes we have a situation where the officers at the higher echelon have received training… but the officers at the lower rank still have not understood fully what harm reduction is all about,” he said. “So, they tend to interpret it as promoting the issue of drug use.”

He explained that outreach workers involved in the needle and syringe programme often get arrested, extorted, or have their health supplies confiscated by law enforcement agents, despite official backing from the Federal Ministry of Health. This discourages many from entering high-risk areas.

“Anytime a community outreach worker goes out there… we still have cases of arrests. They still get arrested. They still get extorted. Their commodities still get confiscated,” he said.

Beyond security agencies, public perception is also a major obstacle. Olofu noted that many communities oppose harm reduction efforts such as condom distribution, fearing they promote drug use or immorality.

“Over time [criminalisation] has built a perception… that people who are offering harm reduction services are encouraging people to continue to do drugs,” he said. “We see a situation where people say you are promoting promiscuity, or you are encouraging young people to go into prostitution.”

Although the Federal Ministry of Health has endorsed services like medication-assisted treatment, which uses methadone to treat opioid dependency, Olofu said these programmes remain vulnerable without proper legislation.

“There is no legal backing or legal framework that fully energises and supports harm reduction service provision,” he said.

Olofu cited Gombe State as a positive example, where the government, with support from health professionals and advocacy groups, has embraced harm reduction. The state has implemented the needle and syringe programme, medication-assisted treatment, and disease screening for people who inject drugs.

According to Olofu, these outcomes show that harm reduction is not a foreign concept, but a necessary, rights-based approach tailored to Nigeria’s public health needs. He called on policymakers to stop treating drug use as a criminal offence and instead see it as a health and human rights issue.

He added, “Drug use is not about someone outside. It could be somebody very close to you… But because of the way we present the issue and demonise the issue, people tend to just run away from coming out to say this is the problem I’m facing.”

This story is supported by YouthRISE Nigeria, a leading advocacy and service delivery organisation on drug policy and programme reform to ensure vulnerable populations such as PWUDs receive care rather than stigma, criminalisation or extortion by law enforcement agents.