By Ocheni Christopher
As Nigeria marks the Mental Health Awareness Month this May, there is a growing but under-acknowledged crisis. As far back as 2018, an estimated 14.3 million Nigerians between the ages of 15 and 64 were reported to have used drugs, with about 3 million living with drug use disorders, according to the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC, 2018). Since then, emerging studies and public health reports suggest that young people, especially students, are increasingly affected, often alongside rising mental health challenges.
In typical classrooms across the country, this crisis is no longer abstract. In many secondary schools and universities, students are quietly battling anxiety, depression, and overwhelming pressure, sometimes turning to substances such as tramadol, cannabis (cana or canna), Colorado (colos), or codeine for relief. What begins as a coping mechanism can quickly spiral into dependence, affecting concentration, behavior, and academic performance. To teachers and members of society, it may appear as indiscipline or poor upbringing. To families, it may be seen as a moral failure or even a spiritual problem. But in many cases, it is something else entirely: a health condition.
The Data Behind the Silence
Across Nigeria, mental health and substance use have now become a pandemic quietly unfolding in classrooms and streets in various cities and communities. Beneath the surface of routine academic life, a growing number of young people are grappling with untreated mental health conditions and rising substance use. The crisis is not loud. It does not command the daily headlines, but it is deep, expanding, and consequential. It is a silent storm.
Available evidence suggests that the scale of substance use and its intersection with mental health is significant and growing. The UNODC drug use survey, supported by subsequent analyses such as Jatau et al. (2021), places Nigeria’s prevalence above global averages. While comprehensive national updates remain limited, smaller-scale studies provide important insight into youth vulnerability.
The National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) recorded drug seizures worth over N100 billion in 2024 alone, involving substances including codeine, methamphetamine, tramadol, tapentadol, heroin, colos, and “loud” (a high-potency cannabis), flowing chiefly through Lagos and Port Harcourt seaports (The Nigerian Observer, October 2024). The money is staggering, yet only a fraction of what actually reaches the streets is ever stopped.
Among secondary school students, recent research has pointed to troubling patterns. A study by Eyo and Sampson (2025) found that more than half (57%) of the 700 adolescents surveyed in Calabar had experimented with psychoactive substances. At the tertiary level, Ajayi and Somefun (2020) reported that approximately 24.5% of the 784 university students investigated had used substances such as cannabis, tramadol, or codeine, with a notable proportion (17.5%) identified as current users.
Additional studies on public health published in recent years continue to link adolescent substance use with anxiety, depression, and impaired cognitive functioning. These patterns are not isolated findings; they reflect a broader shift in how young Nigerians, especially students, are navigating stress, uncertainty, and opportunity.
What They Are Using and Why
The substances driving this trend are both familiar and evolving. Tramadol, with the street name “TM,” is an opioid analgesic meant to treat moderate pain, and has become perhaps the most widely misused pharmaceutical in Nigeria. It is ground up, sniffed, mixed into soft drinks (soda) or fermented pap, or blended into increasingly dangerous concoctions. Codeine, similarly sold over pharmacy counters, is mixed with soft drinks or other substances (street-named as codeine-diet) and consumed in bottles, as documented in the BBC Africa Eye’s landmark 2018 investigation, Sweet Sweet Codeine, which exposed widespread abuse and regulatory gaps.
Recent reports by law enforcement agencies and the media indicate that patterns of use have become more complex, with mixtures and locally improvised substances emerging in different communities. Street concoctions with names like “Omi Gutter” (gutter water) or “Jiko” (a lethal blend of gutter water, tramadol, codeine, cannabis, and other chemicals) have been normalized in certain communities (Udunze, 2026).
Other commonly used substances include “Canadian loud” or “cana” (a high-potency cannabis strain imported from Canada), with variations like “Scottish” or “Ghana Loud,” Igbo/Indian Hemp, MDMA or ecstasy, with the street-name “Molly,” “agbo” and “jedi-jedi” (herbal concoctions made with general bitters, lakoko, alomo bitters, coco, odogwu bitters, gboko cleanser, gin/spirit, plant leaves and roots, etc.). Even though some of these substances are classified as herbal remedies for diabetes, malaria, typhoid, and so on, their consumption is usually not regulated.
More importantly, the use of these substances are not for recreational choices. They are acts of desperation, engineered by the pharmaceutical abandonment of unregulated drug markets, corrupt law enforcement agents (police, armies, NDLEA officers, etc.) who also consume or sell these substances, and the spiritual poverty of a generation that feels abandoned.
The why also extends to academic stress and unemployment, which drive misuse, with students in Lagos, Port Harcourt, and other urban centers reportedly using tramadol specifically to enhance productivity, endure stress, and grueling study hours (Oshodi et al., 2010). Peer groups and culture of “puff-puff pass” (where drug use operates as a social initiation) draws new users in, particularly in schools and at students’ house parties. And then, there is the intersection with crime: security experts and law enforcement have linked tramadol and methamphetamine use directly to internet fraud schemes known colloquially as “Yahoo Yahoo,” as well as to street violence, armed robbery, and cult activities (Supreme Magazine, 2026).
The link between substance use and cybercrime is not incidental. A phenomenological study published in Emerald Insight found that the desire to stay awake for nocturnal internet fraud activities, “get inspiration,” “get high,” or “see clearly,” were documented motivations for non-medical opioid use among young Nigerians (Nwafor et al., 2023).
The “Get-rich-quick” culture, fueled by the glorification of easy wealth in Afrobeats lyrics, social media flexing, and a brutal scarcity of legitimate economic opportunity, has woven itself into the drug use narrative. Perhaps, it is not out of place to mention that the music industry has, to an extent, played a role in the prevalence of addictions and mental illness in Nigeria.
In 2018, Olamide released a song titled “Science Student,” now used on the street as slang for youths who mix various hard drugs and substances like tramadol, cannabis, and codeine. Beyond Olamide’s “Science Student,” which was banned by the Nigerian Broadcasting Commission (NBC) in 2018 (Olowolagba, 2018), other songs like “Last Last” by Burna Boy, featuring the famous line “I need Igbo and Shayo” (I need weed and alcohol), and “Diet” ft. Tiwa Savage, Reminisce, Slimcase, and DJ Enimony, using the phrase “Codeine Diet,” have also played major roles.
Although Olamide and the other musicians stated that the songs were meant to serve as a critique of drug abuse and to encourage youth to “slow down” or stop mixing substances, rather than a promotion of the act, the street interpretation of the lyrics is dangerously subjective. The setback is that these substances do not merely numb the pain of poverty; for some, they have become tools of the hustle.
Understanding Addiction: What Science Says
Academic frameworks from substance use disorder treatment literature offer a more complete picture than moral judgment ever could. The biopsychosocial model- the contemporary gold standard in addiction science- recognizes that substance use disorders arise from an interlocking web of biological vulnerabilities (genetic predisposition, brain chemistry), psychological factors (childhood trauma, coping deficits, learned behavior through classical and operant conditioning), and social or environmental forces (poverty, peer influence, neighborhood norms).
Nigeria’s students are confronting all three simultaneously: genetic susceptibility in a population with high family histories of substance use; deep psychological wounds from poverty, domestic instability, and academic pressure; and an environment saturated with easily accessible drugs, normalized street use, and economic hopelessness. As the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA, 2018) affirms, addiction is not a moral failing; it is a disease of the brain’s reward and motivation or decision-making system. It is progressive, it alters neurobiology, impairs decision-making, and it responds to evidence-based treatment. Yet in Nigeria, it is still predominantly treated as the former.
The psychological model of addiction is particularly relevant in the Nigerian context. Substance use here is frequently secondary to untreated underlying conditions: childhood trauma, depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress from poverty and violence. Students reach for tramadol or codeine not because they are wayward, but because these substances offer the only relief they know from pain that nobody around them acknowledges as real. Addiction, in this light, is not a character flaw; it is a coping mechanism that has gone catastrophically wrong.
A Nation that Calls Sickness Sin
In Nigerian society, where communal reputation and family honor carry enormous weight, admitting that a child has a mental illness or substance use problem is experienced as a profound family shame. Mental illness is attributed to spiritual attack, ancestral curses, or personal moral failure. The Hausa-Fulani tradition may frame it as a consequence of abandoning religious duty.
Across the country, in both Christian and Muslim communities, the first and often only response to a person with a mental health disorder is the church, the mosque, or the traditional healer. In Nigeria, people with mental health disorders are derogatorily referred to as “madmen or women,” “lunatics,” or “crazy”, deepening their marginalization and deterring care-seeking (Olajide, 2025).
Moreover, cultural and religious beliefs continue to frame mental illness as a spiritual malady or sign of moral deficiency, with traditional and spiritual healers frequently serving as the first point of contact, potentially delaying evidence-based diagnosis and treatment for months or years (Saba, 2024).
This is the lens through which many Nigerian students and youths under the influence of drugs or mental illness are seen. Not as individuals with a diagnosable and treatable health condition, a substance use disorder with identifiable neurobiological roots, but as a wayward child, improperly raised, spiritually compromised, and morally deficient. This is what science calls the moral model: the oldest and most discredited framework for understanding addiction. Yet in Nigeria, it remains the dominant paradigm.
The Infrastructure Vacuum
Even when Nigerians choose to seek help- an act of enormous social courage, the system is almost not there to receive them. Research published in Cambridge Prism: Global Mental Health by Fadele et al. (2024) highlights a significant gap between demand for services and available resources. With only about 200-250 psychiatrists serving a population of over 200 million, access to care remains a major challenge (Okechukwu, 2020).
A study by Atewologun et al. (2025) further indicates that mental health infrastructure is concentrated in a few urban centers, leaving large portions of the population underserved. Schools, which could serve as early intervention points, are often unequipped, lacking trained counsellors and structured mental health programs. For instance, Nigeria’s only National Emergency Hotline (112) is for all forms of emergency-related situations, and not just mental health crises (Nigerian Mental Health, 2026).
As a result, many cases go undetected until they become severe. Outside the major cities, a young person in psychological crisis may find themselves entirely without recourse. Schools, which should be the first line of detection and support, are largely unequipped. Research notes that inadequate teacher training and the near-total absence of mental health programs in Nigerian curricula leave students without critical resources during their most vulnerable developmental years (Akinrinde et al., 2024).
The Classroom as Ground Zero
The consequences for education are direct and severe, and largely visible in the classroom. Substance use, beginning in adolescence during a critical period of brain development, directly impairs the executive functions, decision-making, memory, and impulse control, upon which academic performance depends. A student who begins using tramadol or cannabis at 14 is not simply making a bad choice; their neurological architecture is being actively reshaped in ways that compromise learning, emotional regulation, and long-term cognitive capacity.
The sociocultural model in addiction science helps explain the classroom environment itself as a risk factor. Substance use norms within peer groups, access to drugs in the school environments, and the pressures of socioeconomic inequality all constitute environmental determinants. Secondary school students in Nigeria’s urban and rural centers navigate overcrowded classrooms, examination pressures from WAEC, NECO, and JAMB, food insecurity, and a labor market that offers them little hope, all in contexts where substance use is visible, available, and in certain subcultures, prestigious.
When large numbers of students are ensnared by addiction and untreated mental illness, the downstream damage extends far beyond individual lives. Academic dropout rates rise. The pipeline of skilled professionals narrows. Intellectual capital drains from a country already hemorrhaging talent through emigration. A generation shaped by untreated trauma and substance dependence becomes the workforce, the electorate, and the leadership class of tomorrow. The classroom is not just where the crisis is visible. It is where the future of Nigeria is either made or broken.
Policy Progress, Practical Gaps
Over the years, Nigeria has made legislative progress. On January 5, 2023, President Muhammadu Buhari signed the National Mental Health Act 2021 into law, replacing the embarrassingly anachronistic Lunacy Act of 1958, a British colonial holdover that had governed mental health care in Africa’s most populous nation for 65 years (Saied, 2023).
The new law established a Department of Mental Health Services in the Federal Ministry of Health, created a Mental Health Fund, and introduced human rights protections for those with mental health conditions-a landmark shift in legal posture. Nigeria has also developed its first National Suicide Prevention Strategic Framework, reviewed its National Mental Health Policy in 2023, and established a task force to decriminalize attempted suicide, which is still illegal under Nigerian law, a fact that experts actively argue discourages people in crisis from seeking help (WHO Africa, 2025).
Yet the chasm between legislative aspiration and functional reality remains vast. Funding for mental health remains a fraction of the already abysmal health budget. Brain drain continues to deplete the pipeline of trained professionals faster than institutions can produce them. And crucially, the cultural infrastructure- the awareness, the destigmatisation, the public language needed to bring people into care, has barely been touched.
A Call for a Different Response
Addressing this crisis requires more than isolated intervention. It demands a shift in both perception and practice. Nigeria must accelerate the investment in training mental health professionals, expanding psychiatric residency slots, and incentivizing rural service. Rehabilitation capacity must be scaled dramatically. School counselors must be trained and deployed, and mental health literacy must be embedded in the national curriculum from primary school onward.
But no structural intervention will work unless the cultural bedrock shifts. Faith leaders, such as priests, pastors, imams, and traditional rulers, must carry unparalleled influence in Nigerian communities. They must be brought into the conversation, trained as first responders, and empowered to redirect their congregations from shame-based framing to health-based understanding. The message must be clear and repeated: a child who develops a substance use disorder is not wayward. They are unwell. They need a doctor, not deliverance alone.
Contemporary treatment advances, digital therapeutics, cognitive behavioral therapy, motivational interviewing, integrated care models, telehealth platforms, and medication-assisted treatment offer Nigeria tools it has barely begun to deploy. Telehealth, for instance, could bridge the vast geographic gap between patients and mental health professionals in a country where both poverty and distance make clinic attendance impossible for millions. Biosensors, smartphone-based check-in apps, and geofencing tools are already being piloted in more resource-rich environments. Nigeria does not need to reinvent the wheel; it only needs the political will to turn it.
A Storm That Can Be Faced
Mental Health Awareness Month offers more than a symbolic opportunity. It presents a moment for reflection and action on this silent storm. Silent because its casualties do not bleed visibly in the street. Silent, because its victims are told to be ashamed, to pray harder, to simply try more. Silent, because an entire generation is quietly losing itself in classrooms and streets across this country while the cameras point elsewhere.
But storms, however silent, leave wreckage. And this one, if left unaddressed, will leave wreckage not in one community, or one school, or one family, but across the entire architecture of Nigeria’s human potential.
The science is clear. The policy window is open. The need is urgent. What remains is the will to call addiction what it is, to call mental illness what it is, and to stand beside Nigeria’s young people not with condemnation, but with care. The classroom should be a place where futures are built. It is past time to make it so.
Christopher, an educational assessment and mental health researcher, lives in Alabama, US
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