A CHAT FROM LONDON: Bhang and the scent of this dreadful drug

What you need to know:

So I was on the lower deck, observing pedestrian fans rushing to see the Arsenal – Tottenham match.

I was seated in a London bus, yes; these world famous London red double decker ones. Most youths usually trot upstairs. Downstairs are mainly mothers with babies. disabled, elderly and passengers doing short journeys with massive bags. Or standing ready to pop out.

So I was on the lower deck, observing pedestrian fans rushing to see the Arsenal – Tottenham match. It was still early and I was debating whether I should go home first or head straight to the game. Oh, my shopping mountain. How do you go to such an exciting north London derby with loads of groceries? Nuts.

Out of the corner of my eye I explored a restless young woman. She was pregnant so my hunch, mmmh; she must be feeling nauseous? But it was not her motherly bulge that attracted my attention. She was furiously (yes, furiously) fanning herself with a newspaper. Then pulled her neck scarf (we are November and it is beginning to get colder in the North Hemisphere) to cover her mouth and nose. I thought she was about to vomit.

But, alas, quickly solved the maths.

A very, very strong odour of Marijuana was descending from the upper section of the meandering machine. Sure, sure. Common these days. More and more people are openly smoking what is known as weed, bhang, bangi, ganja, spliff and all those awful names associated with the notorious mind altering substance.

It has been documented how this so called “wonder drug” can cause mental health and recklessness.

For example figures released in the US (where cannabis was legalised in Oregon, Washington and Colorado), allege there is an increase of fatalities by three percent in those states. The Insurance Institute for Highway Safety, claimed these stats (3 per cent) taken from 2012 to 2016 might be minute, yet “still significant.”

For many years it has been claimed that Marijuana smoking makes you creative. Celebrated artists like Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix did indeed produce their best music under THE INFLUENCE OF.

What about the average, uncreative Jack, Mariam, Abdul and Jill?

Listen to this. Few nights ago I was in a late train. As I got in, discovered two semi drunk ladies muffling down something with a pleasant aroma.

“That smells good...” I said.

“Oh, just a Pizza,” one of them chanted munching.

“Bon Appétit...” said I, in French.

“Thanks.” Both chimed.

Here we have to remind readers of international etiquette and manners regarding food. If you are in Tanzania, and eating you will actually tell the non-eater “karibu chakula” (welcome to eat). In Latin and Germanic countries you the non-eater tells those masticating, to have a hearty feed (“bon appétit, guten apetitt”, etc). To my knowledge English etiquette has no distinct phrase as such. I always hear people saying “have a piece...” or “can I get you something too?” This in retrospect is akin to the Swahili custom of ‘karibu chakula’.

So, our two ladies were extremely cordial and soon drifted to their own conversation. I quickly learnt they were young parents out together and leaving husbands with children for a few hours on a Saturday night. .

Ten minutes, after, we reached a busy station. In stumbled two young males. One was really tall, black; other medium height, mixed race. They immediately unlocked the train windows.

Then began arguing.

The taller managed to have his way and, brazenly, lit this horrible cannabis. His mate did not join in. I guessed that might have been the dispute. It is illegal to smoke, let alone use drugs, in public.

Now.

Taller chap shuffled and sat by the two Pizza eating mothers. He continued puffing the Bangi while staring at them, intently. Intensely. Still in his stoned mode, he opened more windows of the carriage. As noted, we are in November; it is getting chilly and cold. He was a big guy; moved fast, aggressively.

I observed another woman; black, a few meters away, scooping out a gadget. She squeezed scented air around her. Perfumed spray. Continued listening to music on her phone.

The smoker took out a can of Coca Cola. Drank.

His mate was busy texting.

Phone.

Train still rattled. The two Pizza ladies stood up shifted to the next carriage. Now it was me, a few other people, plus the black lady with a perfume nozzle. Being another guy, I was of no interest to him; therefore, the stoned chap turned to whom else?

Black lady.

She ignored him. Not a blink; not a word, quiet as a mouse.

Hopefully, train arrived at her destination. Mine too. We both stepped out.

Once we were off ear shot, she sighed: “What a...”

“I know.”

Shook her head. Exasperation.

Freddy Macha is a writer and musician based in London. Blog, www.freddymachablogspot.com