I was pulled into reggae music at a tender age, a soundscape of heavy basslines, echoing snares, and conscious lyrics that wafted through the room of my older brother, Lloyd.
A large portrait of Tupac, Bob Marley, and other reggae icons adorned his wall—a symbol of the powerful influence that reggae and, inevitably, ganja would have on my youth.
Lloyd, who was taken from us too soon, was a reggae devotee. But it was my other brother, Lovemore, who took the mantle of reggae passion to another level.
His room was a library of reggae culture, with cassettes collected and dubbed over long evenings in our mountainous village of Mudanda, deep in Central Buhera.
From Sanchez to Yellowman, Peter Tosh to Lucky Dube, our house would echo with the consciousness of roots reggae, the edginess of dancehall, and the revolutionary spirit of rock reggae.
The Call of the Ganja Beat
Ganja, the so-called “holy herb,” became a part of the culture long before I could fully grasp its significance.
I grew up hearing Peter Tosh sing “Legalise It,” a rallying cry for a global struggle to destigmatise a plant that carries profound historical, spiritual, and medicinal weight.
This music taught me, early on, that ganja was not just about smoking; it was a symbol of resistance.
In Buhera, where the soil is unfertile and life is slow, reggae was more than sound—it was the pulse of rural resilience, a connection to a broader struggle that stretched from Jamaica to the heart of Africa.
While I never felt the urge to embrace all the trappings of Rastafarian culture, the world around me did.
Friends from high school—Caninto, Tapo, and Vidza—were loyal to the plant, even when it got them into trouble.
In one memorable incident, they were caught and expelled for their “holy smoke.”
It was a harsh lesson that while ganja brought many closer to the spiritual and the revolutionary, it also brought consequences in a society that held rigid lines between legality and cultural expression.
African Roots and the Jamaican Connection
For many Africans, ganja carries a deep resonance that stretches beyond its Caribbean fame.
In places like Zimbabwe, Kenya, and South Africa, ganja is more than an imported symbol of Rastafarianism.
It has traditional roots; used in ceremonies, as a medicinal herb, and as a tool of resistance against colonial forces who sought to criminalise African culture.
Songs like Ganja Farmer by Marlon Asher remind me of the struggle that accompanies the plant; a sense of empowerment and defiance against the forces that criminalise its use.
In Jamaica, where Rastafarianism took root, ganja is sacred—grounded in spiritual practices and revered for its ability to open the mind to higher consciousness.
The echoes of this cultural practice spread to Buhera, where with my brother we would sit and listen to the likes of Buju Banton and Sizzla, discussing the wisdom embedded in lyrics that sang of “Babylon’s” oppression and the hope for liberation.
Ganja, for many in my village, became a symbol of unity with the global Black diaspora; a plant that was both humble and radical in its power.
The Legal Debate: Between Decriminalisation and Control
The global discourse on ganja has evolved, from calls to legalise it in Peter Tosh’s day to today’s debates over decriminalisation, regulation, and control.
The legalisation movement has gained traction in many parts of the world, with countries like Canada and parts of the United States normalising its use both medicinally and recreationally.
In South Africa, the Constitutional Court ruled in 2018 that private use of cannabis was not a criminal offense, a landmark decision that aligned with Rastafarian beliefs.
In Zimbabwe, the conversation around ganja is still emerging.
While there are restrictions on recreational use, medicinal and industrial cannabis has seen a slow opening, with the government issuing licenses for its cultivation.
The contradiction of a law that still punishes possession while promoting commercial cultivation for profit is not lost on me.
It brings into focus a persistent tension—between viewing ganja as a dangerous vice and a valuable economic resource.
Reggae has never shied away from addressing this hypocrisy.
As Buju Banton put it, “It’s not an easy road, many see the glamour and the glitter so dem think a bed of rose.”
The commercialisation of ganja often sidesteps the lived experiences of those who have faced the harshest consequences of its criminalisation, particularly Black men.
It is a reminder that even as the conversation shifts to profit, the struggle for justice remains.
Medicinal Marvel or Dangerous Drug?
Beyond its cultural and legal implications, ganja has gained a growing reputation for its medicinal properties.
Research has shown its potential in treating chronic pain, epilepsy, and even some mental health conditions.
In the rural African context, traditional healers have long used cannabis to treat ailments, employing it in ways that mirror its medicinal uses in Western practices.
Gomondo (Sinyoro) of the Moyo totem (May his soul rest in peace) would sometimes mention its use as a remedy in hushed tones, recalling how it could soothe pain or calm the nerves of anxious spirits.
However, like any potent substance, ganja’s use is not without its complexities.
In my village, the line between medicine and recreational use is often blurred, and for some, it becomes an escape rather than a healing tool.
The cultural discourse around ganja in the Black male experience cannot ignore the reality that for many, it has also been a source of addiction and despair—a way to numb the pain of systemic oppression and personal loss.
Resilience and Rural Reflections
For all its contradictions, ganja remains a part of my story; a story of resilience, resistance, and rural identity.
Growing up in Buhera, reggae was not just the backdrop to my childhood but the lens through which I learned to understand struggle and endurance.
My brother and I, surrounded by the sounds of Sanchez, Burning Spear, and Culture, found in reggae a language that spoke of strength in adversity.
Ganja, like the reggae music that glorifies it, is a complex symbol in the Black male experience.
It is the link that ties my rural African upbringing to the broader struggles of the Caribbean and the world.
The songs of my youth; tracks like Ganja Smuggling by Eek-A-Mouse and Under Mi Sensi by Barrington Levy—echo with memories of a village where time moved slowly, and the beat of reggae was as much a part of daily life as the rhythm of planting and harvest.
The Green Legacy
I may not have embraced every aspect of Rastafarianism, but reggae’s spirit of resistance, of cultural pride, and of challenging injustice lives on in my writing.
Ganja, for all its controversy, stands as a testament to the resilience of marginalised communities, the way it brings together tradition, healing, and defiance.
Today, the discourse around ganja is as dynamic as ever.
The music continues to evolve, reflecting both the fight for legalisation and the complexities of a plant that carries centuries of history.
In rural Buhera, where the mountains stand tall and the air is heavy with the scent of crops and earth, ganja remains a potent symbol.
It is the common thread that runs from Nyashanu School Grounds, through the sounds of my youth, to the global stage—a reminder that the smoke, the struggle, and the resilience are part of a legacy that cannot be easily silenced.
In the words of the legendary Bob Marley, “Herb is the healing of the nation.”
Whether you see it as medicine, a sacrament, or a vice, ganja is woven into the fabric of our cultural identity.
And for those of us who grew up with the rhythms of reggae and the whispers of ganja in the air, it is a part of who we are a reminder that from the struggle comes strength, and from the earth, resilience.