Anonymous Submission | Nrites by Nyaniba

It all began in 2018. I was a 17-year-old SHS 2 student at one of the most prestigious boys’ schools in Ghana, Mfantsipim Senior High School. Bright-eyed and full of ambition, I had dreams of becoming a mechanical engineer. But life, as I would come to learn, had other plans.

That year, a cholera outbreak swept through the country. At school, the fear of infection led to a swift decision, our housemaster, Mr. Buabeng, banned the purchase of food from outside vendors. It was meant to protect us. The dining hall meals and our personal provisions were all we were allowed. For many, this was a reasonable measure. But for some of us, especially those who were always hungry or simply craved more, it felt like a cage.

I didn’t take the restrictions lightly. I was always one of the daring ones. During prep hours, a group of us would sneak out, scaling the school walls under cover of dusk. We’d rush to buy check check, a local delicacy we nicknamed “medallion,” for just 5 cedis a pack. But it didn’t stop there, we’d return and sell it at a markup, making 7 or even 8 cedis per pack.

It wasn’t just about food anymore. It became a business. A profitable one. I started placing bulk orders, sometimes over 100 packs at once. I’d disguise them as visiting packages so no one would question how they arrived. The money flowed easily. Too easily. And with it came a feeling of power and invincibility I had never tasted before.

But underneath all of that, something in me was beginning to shift. What I didn’t realize then was that my choices, masked as hustle and smart thinking, were laying the foundation for something far more dangerous. Something I would later come to recognize as addiction.

The Spiral

As time went on, I began drifting deeper into a life I never imagined for myself. The money I made from my food hustle gave me access to circles I should’ve stayed far from. Out of peer pressure and youthful curiosity, I started hanging out with some of the more rebellious boys mostly on weekends. We’d sneak off campus, party, and sometimes meet girls from town. It felt exciting… like freedom. But I didn’t know I was walking straight into a trap.

One afternoon at the Cape Coast beach, near a place we called Main Spain, one of the popular boys introduced me to weed. He told me, “Just try it once—you’ll like it.” I hesitated, but eventually gave in. And honestly, the first time didn’t feel bad. I felt high, relaxed… even peaceful. I slept like a baby that night. Ate well too. It felt like medicine.

But what started as occasional use turned into routine. I began spending less and less time at school. I’d only show up when I had to do business transactions, maybe an exam. The rest of my time, I was either smoking with friends by the sea or wandering there alone.

Eventually, the weed didn’t hit like it used to. I needed something stronger. So we moved on to hashish, “alms,” and even tramadol. My body adjusted quickly, and my soul became numb. The things I once loved, learning, dreaming, planning my future, they all felt distant now. I had gone from a brilliant, promising student… to a ghost of myself. An addict.

I managed to write WASSCE. I didn’t fail, but my grades weren’t enough to get me into the university course I’d dreamed of—Computer Science at KNUST. Still, my family believed in me. My sister and older brother had no idea how far I had fallen. They just saw the spark in me and wanted to help me get back on track. So they worked hard, pooled their resources, and enrolled me in remedial classes at Ideal College.

I told myself I’d change. That I could manage both: fix my grades and keep my habits in check. But life hit hard.

While I was writing remedial exams, my older brother, my biggest supporter, passed away in Kumasi. My sister didn’t tell me until after I’d finished writing. She knew the news would break me. And when I finally heard… I did break.

Somehow, I still managed to get 2 A’s, 5 B’s, and 1 C. But inside, I was crumbling. I was fighting a war between the version of me my family believed in… and the one I was becoming.

Hitting Rock Bottom

After my WASSCE, my sister finally told me the truth: my brother had passed away while I was still writing my exams. I was stunned. Crushed. It was as if all the pain I had bottled up, everything I had numbed with weed, pills, and smoke came crashing down at once.

I didn’t know how to process the grief, the guilt, or the shame. So I did what I knew—I escaped. Only this time, I escaped completely.

Things spiraled quickly. I stopped going home. I started spending nights in ghettos, anywhere I could feed the addiction and avoid reality. And the worst part? I began stealing from the one person who had sacrificed everything for me. My sister. She had always believed in me, always fought for me… and now I was betraying her just to get my next fix.

Even in her disappointment, she didn’t give up. She found a way through her own struggles, while still raising my nephew and helping his mother to get me enrolled at KNUST. Computer Science. The dream I once had.

But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t care anymore. I had no aim, no vision, no will. I dropped out in my very first semester.

I could see the hurt in her eyes. I was wasting every opportunity she fought to give me. But her love was relentless. When nothing else worked, she pushed again, this time, to send me to a rehab center.

I wanted to believe things would change there. But even inside those walls, addiction had a way of finding us. Some of the other guys turned rehab into another ghetto. Drugs found their way in. And once again, I found myself back where I started, trapped in a cycle that felt unbreakable.

A Life on the Edge

I wish I could say rehab saved me. But the truth is, I left worse than I came.

At the rehab, they grouped us and sent us out to solicit foodstuff in the name of the orphanage. I should’ve seen it as a chance to rebuild something… anything. But my addiction had already taken root too deep. It was like I was no longer in control of my own choices. I was a puppet, and the drugs were pulling every string.

So I ran. I ran away from the facility, from recovery, from the one chance my sister scraped everything to give me. And I didn’t just disappear, I used the very shirt the rehab gave me, pretending to still be part of their outreach, walking the streets and knocking on doors to beg for money… just to feed my next craving.

By now, most of my friends from SHS were in their final year at the university. They were moving forward, closer to dreams I once held too. And me? I was stuck in place. Worse, I was sinking.

I began to feel it, the slow creep of suicidal thoughts. Not dramatic at first… just a quiet, persistent whisper: “What’s the point?”

I felt so ashamed. So lost. So hopeless. And yet, addiction still held me tightly like chains I couldn’t break.

I didn’t recognize myself anymore. The brilliant SHS student with dreams of becoming a mechanical engineer… was now a shadow of himself, wandering the streets with lies on his lips and pain in his heart.

But deep down… something in me still wanted out. I just didn’t know how.

A Whisper of Redemption

Even in my worst moments, I prayed.

Quietly. Desperately.

“God, please help me.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest.

At one point, I found myself juggling two lives, spending the day working as a kayayo, offloading heavy goods at the market at night, and in the day going back into town to deceive kind-hearted strangers for money to feed my addiction. I was surviving, not living. And even the money I made through hard work still wasn’t enough to silence the craving.

But then… something shifted.

I can’t explain it fully, but I felt it. A strong inner voice. A divine instruction. A quiet but unmistakable urge:

“Return what doesn’t belong to you.”

A week later, at dawn while the city still slept, I made my way back to the rehabilitation center. I clutched the materials I had used to solicit money—fake IDs, shirts, signs, the lies I wore every day. My hands were shaking. My heart was heavy.

Before I reached the gate, I stood still, closed my eyes, and prayed:

“God… forgive me. Have mercy.

Heal everyone I’ve ever deceived. And if there’s still hope for me, please restore me.”

I didn’t stay long.

I threw everything over the wall of the rehab and ran.

But something happened in that moment.

Not on the outside, on the inside.

I felt free. Like a chain had broken. Like something heavy had been lifted from my chest.

For the first time in years, I could breathe again.

It wasn’t the end of my journey, but it was a beginning. A sacred beginning.

Redemption

I was still balancing my addiction with my work as a kayayo in Accra. Every day, I prayed. I gradually stopped craving the pills (tramadol) and was only smoking weed and hashish. Even with that, I began to sense by God’s grace that I would one day stop entirely.

I started watching YouTube videos about addiction recovery and listening to counseling messages. I prayed for divine intervention because I knew that living on the streets would only keep me trapped. I tried quitting completely for about two months. Sometimes, I’d go two or three weeks without using, only to relapse again because of the harsh environment and working conditions.

Then one day, God intervened.

I received an unexpected call from one of my old friends from the ghetto—he had moved to Kumasi. A woman was looking for me. Let’s call her Ms Adwoa, a miracle in disguise.

Several months back, during my time in rehab, we were sent out to solicit for foodstuff. That’s how I met her. She was curious about me and asked a lot of questions. I told her the truth about my life and addiction. She was touched. She gave me GHS 100 and invited me to a quick lunch. There, she prayed for me, encouraged me, and told me to keep fighting. Before we parted, she gave me her number and asked me to call when I completed rehab. But when I ran away and returned to street life, I lost contact with her. She had been searching for me ever since.

By God’s grace, two months after I had completely quit drugs, He reconnected us. She reached out again, this time to offer me a job and a place to stay. I was stunned. I never expected such a blessing.

I started a new job at a reputable company. The first three days were hard, I struggled with forgetfulness, poor concentration, and other withdrawal symptoms. But God carried me through it all.

Now, I don’t rely on my own strength. Philippians 4:13 says, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” And I’ve come to truly believe that.

Looking back, one of the biggest helps God sent me was the market women and a man called Mr. Pato. They saw potential in me. They loved me because I was respectful and hardworking, but they hated my addiction. They constantly advised me, and sometimes even shouted at me when they realized I had taken pills. They didn’t care if the others were using, they wanted better for me. Because of them, I eventually stopped taking tramadol.

To anyone battling addiction, here’s what I’ll say:

First, submit to God. Accept that you’re powerless on your own and seek support from elders or trusted people. Keep yourself busy with something new. And never say, “Just one more.” One is too many, and a thousand is never enough.

Last Friday, I saw some of my old friends still trapped in addiction. The drugs have worn them down. Physically. Emotionally. It broke my heart. I asked myself, Was I really once like this? Did I once live without purpose?

But today, I manage myself well. I’m saving. I’m working. And I’m healing.

To anyone going through this: It is possible to overcome addiction. God did it for me. And if you truly ask Him, He’ll do it for you too.

I’m proud to share my story.

And I pray it gives someone else the courage to fight.

One Last Thing—A Moment of Truth

Nyaniba: Looking back, what triggered you to want to take your own life?

Anonymous: Not being able to further my education because of my addiction. I felt like I had disappointed everyone, especially myself. I didn’t feel normal. I didn’t feel human. I’m literally in tears right now as I share this.

Just yesterday, I passed by the market while running an errand for my boss. Some of the women who used to see me lost, broken, and high… they saw me.

Some smiled with pride in their eyes. Others were too shy to even talk to me, the same ones who had written me off completely.

It’s raining here now. Had it been the old me, I’d be out there, soaked and wild, craving, lost in the hunt for a fix. But today… today I’m simply enjoying the rain. God’s breeze, not the haze of drugs. That’s grace.

Nyaniba: I appreciate you sharing your story with me. May God continue to guide your steps.

You are a shining light and God has set you apart for a purpose far greater than anything you’ve been through.

The End