Dangerous myth of "medical" marijuana among Kenya's youth

Across Kenya, a new and persuasive narrative is taking root in our university hostels, urban estates, and digital spaces. An increasing number of young people now describe their cannabis use as "medical." They claim it is a necessary tool to navigate anxiety, insomnia, or the crushing weight of modern stress. Given the rising tide of mental health challenges among the youth, this self-diagnosis can seem reasonable, even progressive. However, as a psychiatrist witnessing the clinical fallout of this trend, I believe we must pause and ask: at what cost?

The distress among Kenyan youth is undeniably real. Between academic pressures, a stagnant job market, and the lingering psychological shadows of the past few years, our young people are struggling. Cannabis remains the most widely used illicit substance in the country, and its normalisation is accelerating. But we must address the dangerous conflation of "medical use" with "self-medication."

In international clinical settings, "medical cannabis" refers to specific, CBD-dominant preparations that are rigorously tested, precisely dosed, and administered under strict supervision for conditions like chronic pain or treatment-resistant epilepsy. This bears no resemblance to the high-THC "shash" or "weed" sold in our streets. What our youth are accessing is an unregulated product with high potency and no clinical oversight and it hasn’t been prescribed for them. From a medical standpoint, using an unknown concentration of a psychoactive substance to numb emotional pain is not a treatment plan; it is a risk.

The timing of this usage is particularly concerning. The human brain undergoes its most critical refinement during adolescence and early adulthood, with the prefrontal cortex the centre for judgment and emotional regulation not fully maturing until the mid-twenties. Flooding this developing system with high-THC cannabis can derail this process. We see the results in our clinics: impaired concentration, "a-motivational syndrome," and a heightened vulnerability to mood instability.

Most alarming is the undeniable link between cannabis and psychosis. Psychiatric wards are increasingly occupied by young people experiencing cannabis-induced psychotic episodes characterised by paranoia, hallucinations, and disorganized thinking. Research shows that for those with a genetic predisposition, heavy cannabis use doesn't just mimic psychosis; it can act as the "key" that unlocks chronic conditions like schizophrenia.

The popularity of the "medical" label is a symptom of a larger systemic failure. In Kenya, mental health services remain out of reach for many. Public facilities are often overstretched, and the stigma surrounding "mental illness" remains a formidable barrier. In this vacuum, cannabis becomes an accessible, cheap, and socially accepted "coping tool." But short-term relief is often a predator in disguise. Over time, the brain develops tolerance, and what started as a way to "relax" becomes a dependency that the individual requires just to feel functional.

As we debate drug policy and economic opportunities, we must centre the mental health of our youth. This is not a call for criminalisation or shaming; we cannot arrest our way out of a mental health crisis. It is a call for honesty. We need robust investment in accessible mental health care and evidence-based public education that deglamourizes self-medication.

Cannabis is neither a miracle cure nor a harmless herb. Our responsibility as a society clinicians, parents, and policymakers is to ensure that our youth do not trade their long-term cognitive and emotional health for a fleeting, unregulated "cure." 

Dr Mutisya is a consultant psychiatrist, a former head of Mental Health Promotion at the Ministry of Health