By Praise Mupanduki
Zimbabwe has not been short of anti-drug campaigns.
We have heard the radio jingles, seen the posters and watched community meetings vow to “save a generation”.
Yet the crisis has not retreated.
It has shifted—quietly, strategically—towards the places where young people spend most of their day: our schools.
This is not a dramatic claim; it is increasingly consistent with what evidence and lived reality are showing.
UNICEF’s research brief on adolescent and youth substance abuse notes that drug and substance use begins as early as adolescence, with some evidence pointing to vulnerability in the 10–18 age group.
It also cites cases where the youngest reported user was as young as 10, and highlights how early exposure can start well before adulthood.
That reality mirrors what many teachers and parents whisper about but rarely confront publicly: secondary and high schools are becoming initiation grounds.
In some schools, the warning signs are not hidden—just normalised.
The learner who sleeps through lessons. The sudden aggression, unexplained mood swings and violent outbursts.
The group that “always disappears” during break or after sports. The new “crew” forming around intimidation and status.
These are not merely discipline issues; they can be symptoms of a deeper problem that requires early intervention.
What young people are using—and why schools are attractive targets
The substances young people are accessing are also telling. UNICEF’s synthesis (drawing on evidence from partners, including Zimbabwe Civil Liberties and Drug Network) reports high levels of cannabis use, but also alarming patterns involving cough syrups and crystal meth (locally known as mutoriro), among other substances.
This matters because it challenges the comforting myth that “it’s just mbanje”. Zimbabwe’s youth drug landscape now includes a mix of traditional substances, pharmaceuticals and highly addictive stimulants.
Schools are attractive to suppliers for the same reasons markets are attractive to businesses: there is a concentrated customer base, predictable routines and—often—weak surveillance.
A Zimbabwean media report on drug incidents linked to an elite Harare school described school leaders warning that drug dealers deliberately target schools because learners have money to spend, and cited claims of learners spending significant amounts weekly on drugs.
Even if one disputes the exact figures, the underlying point is hard to dismiss: where there is disposable pocket money, peer pressure and curiosity, supply chains will follow.
And suppliers do not always need to lurk outside the gate.
Sometimes, the “dealer” is a learner. When drug use becomes a status symbol—something associated with being bold, grown, fashionable or “connected”—the school environment itself can become a distribution channel.
The human cost schools don’t talk about
The most painful part is what happens after the first experiment.
UNICEF’s brief links substance abuse to severe outcomes among adolescents and young people, including school dropouts and violence.
One of the most chilling findings it cites is that 70% of gang violence is among school children, alongside rising school dropouts, with 60% having dropped out after being expelled for drug and substance abuse.
That last detail should disturb every school administrator and policymaker: expulsion may remove a problem from a school’s reputation, but it can also push the problem deeper into the community—cutting off supervision, structure and any chance of early recovery.
If our main institutional response is to “chase them away”, we should not be surprised when the streets become the next classroom.
Zimbabwe’s wider drug crisis is feeding the school crisis
It would be dishonest to blame schools alone. Schools sit inside communities—and communities are under strain.
An ActionAid report on drug abuse among young people points to deep socio-economic drivers, noting that widespread poverty is a risk factor and that substance abuse is linked to stress, trauma and mental health pressures.
It also highlights a serious treatment gap, including limited specialist drug and alcohol treatment capacity in Zimbabwe.
When communities are struggling, and treatment pathways are weak, schools end up dealing with the symptoms of national problems—often without the training or resources to respond appropriately.
Meanwhile, law enforcement continues to intercept parts of the supply chain. A Xinhua report on Zimbabwe’s drug crackdown said police operations had resulted in thousands of arrests during a stop-and-search campaign period, and also quoted a hospital official saying a very high proportion of patients at a major psychiatric hospital were dealing with drug and substance abuse problems.
These details show scale—but they also show a troubling cycle: arrests rise while demand remains.
Even in day-to-day policing, the substances involved keep reappearing. A report in The Herald described arrests linked to suspected dealing, including bottles of Broncleer cough syrup and cannabis.
When cough syrup features repeatedly in drug raids, we should ask: how easily are learners accessing it, and what gaps exist in monitoring and prevention?
What should change—beyond posters and punishment
Yes, schools need safety. But the answer cannot be reduced to “tighter gates” alone.
First, early detection and referral must become standard.
Teachers are often the first adults to notice behavioural shifts, but many are not trained to identify substance-use red flags or to respond without humiliation and stigma.
Schools need clear referral pathways to counsellors, social workers, health services and child protection structures—especially for repeat cases.
Second, schools must stop relying on expulsion as the headline solution. When evidence suggests many young people drop out after being expelled for substance abuse, the country should be building rehabilitation-linked, education-preserving responses—where recovery and learning are both protected.
Third, the “after-school vacuum” needs urgent attention.
If young people leave school and return to idle hours with no sport, clubs, mentorship or supervised recreation, the street will fill the gap.
Even community leaders quoted in Zimbabwe coverage have argued for restoring structured extracurricular activities and discipline alongside stronger family support.
Fourth, parents must be treated as partners, not spectators.
Some schools complain that parents deny the problem or become defensive, while some parents feel schools hide cases until they explode.
The truth is: prevention requires collaboration—parenting support, honest communication, monitoring of pocket money, and stronger accountability for adults who supply or enable access.
Finally, we need more honest data and less guesswork. Zimbabwe’s own multisectoral planning acknowledges gaps in monitoring and the reliance on secondary or anecdotal evidence in understanding the full scope of the crisis.
Without consistent national tracking—by age, location and setting (including schools)—we will keep fighting noise with slogans.
If we truly believe schools are places of learning and protection, then we must admit this: the drug war is not only in the streets.
It is in classrooms, corridors and toilets. It is in the silent suffering of learners who want to fit in, and in the exhaustion of teachers who are asked to do counselling without training. And until we treat schools as the frontline—with prevention, support, accountability and rehabilitation—we will keep losing the very generation we claim we are trying to save
