The Streets on Colos by Sharoneez Emephia

Stepping out of one’s home these days feels like stepping into a jungle of uncertainties.

What ought to be a simple walk to work, a short trip to the market, or a bus ride across town has increasingly become a gamble with safety.

The streets, once vibrant with communal warmth, now carry a heavy stench of fear, fear of violence, fear of crime, and fear of the unknown behaviours fuelled by substances like Colos.

It was not always like this. Growing up, neighbourhoods were safe havens.

Children could wander freely from one compound to another, carrying their innocence and laughter along. Adults, too, lived without the constant paranoia of being mugged or attacked.

But the rhythm has changed.

Today, the once-familiar streets feel alien, and every step is taken with caution, every glance behind a silent prayer that one makes it home unscathed.

As a journalist, I have trained myself to see beyond the surface, to notice the undercurrents that often escape the distracted eyes of a hurried commuter.

One afternoon, I walked through a street and saw a group of young men sprawled about, clearly under the heavy weight of substances.

Whether it was Colos, a cocktail of drugs, or raw alcohol, I could not tell.

But what seared my mind was the sight of a lady, distressed and helpless, tugging at one of them who lay slumped on the pavement.

She begged him to rise and follow her home.

Her pain was not just for him but for the dignity that had been stripped away by an unseen addiction, leaving her to carry both shame and heartbreak in the open.

Elsewhere, chaos erupted as voices rose in anger. A man had just been robbed of his phone.

Not far away, in a jarring scene of cruelty, a young girl was shoved out of a moving vehicle by one chance criminals disguised as transporters. Such stories are no longer rare, they are the lived experiences of countless citizens of the Republic. And they give life to the expression on everyone’s lips: “The streets are on Colos.”

But the crisis is not just about crime or drugs, it is about society unraveling at its very seams. When economic hardship bites, when mental health challenges go untreated, and when communities fail to nurture their young, the streets inevitably become theatres of madness. Neither the young nor the old are spared. Stepping out now often means stepping into the unknown, hoping that divine mercy will return one safely to the warmth of home.

How did we arrive here? And more importantly, how do we turn back? The answers may lie not just in policing or government interventions but in returning to the basics, family. Every menace on the street today once belonged to a home. Every addict, every robber, every restless soul was once a child with untainted eyes. Families must begin to take responsibility, financially, emotionally, and spiritually.

In these hard times, raising children goes beyond feeding and sheltering them. It is about mentoring, instilling values, and limiting the number of dependants to what one can truly cater for. Unattended children, left to raise themselves in the chaos of a crumbling society, often grow up to be the very faces of fear we now encounter daily.

The streets, we must remember, are reflections of our homes. If families can raise grounded, responsible individuals, guided by discipline, empathy, and hope, the streets will breathe again. Safe streets are not a luxury; they are the lifeline of a thriving society. And until we fix the family, the streets will remain on Colos, dizzy and dangerous.