The intersection between cannabis prohibitionism and police brutality
It’s 7 pm on a Friday, and I’ve been walking home for the past half hour or so. I’m on the homestretch, and I can see my favourite fast food joint in the distance.
I ran in the morning, cleaned the house, and stopped by a friend’s place to check on them. If anyone deserves a bucket of fries and half a chicken, I do.
I’m lost in my thoughts, walking with my head down, hands in my pockets, Diary-of-a-Wimpy-Kid style. I don’t notice the cops standing ahead of me until they’re right in front of me.
I see six well-polished boots, and I look up to see three Administration Police officers, their fingers trained on their AK-47s.
I stop.
Well, technically, they stop me.
“Where are you coming from, young man?”
“I’m just taking a walk.”
“Where from?”
“The hospital.”
“Mhhm. You have a doctor’s note or something?”
“I wasn’t sick, just strolling.”
“And where are you going now?”
“Home.”
“Where?”
“Just behind the university.”
“Hmmm. ID?”
While he studies my ID, another looks me up and down:
“Look at his hair. He probably has weed on him.”
They all laugh.
“Well, do you?” he asks, putting my ID card in his back pocket.
I pause. Because, you see, I do have weed on me. Not much, but a lot more than I could stash in my socks.
In my shirt pocket, there’s a zip loc bag filled to the brim with craft Durban Poison flower and some organic RAW smoking papers. I’m still deliberating on what to say when Cop 2 chimes in again:
“You need to be honest, ‘cause we can just search you ourselves if you want.”
…
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Author: Martin Mahanda / High Times
