Isn't it time to legalise the zol?

No, I am not a zol monkey. This is not a throwdown from a bonghead. I am not tapping away on my keyboard in a cloud of purple haze. This will not be a THC-fueled rant about the wonders of pot, the miracle of ganja and the salvation you will find in the herb. I will not tell you that it brings you closer to Jah or takes you to a higher plane. I will not go on about how a bucket-bong is better for you than a box of durries. Because that’s horseshit. And I ain’t peddling that. I’m not a hippie, a greenie, a communist, a naturalist or a nudist. I did not grow up in an ashram. I don’t own a teepee or a didgeridoo. I won’t be calling my kids Moondrop or Skypony or whatever the hell crusties call their children. I ain’t that guy. I’m just an average schmo. A schmo who likes a schmoke. A middle-class middle-aged guy who likes it when people get high.

Grass ain’t no thing. Just another one of the many ways we chose to get f ’d up. Like a Klipdrift or a Mainstay. Sucked back with flat Coca-Cola from a two-litre in the parking lot. The only difference is they don’t call a zol a klap-jou-vrou-en-coke. This is not the drug we associate with violence. No, mate, if you think GBH and marijuana go together, you’ve been pulling on the wrong bottle-neck. If anything this shit is going to mung you out. It’ll blitzkrieg the fight right out of your balls. You’ll be looking the other way at the first sight of confrontation. Mumbling your apology where none was needed. You’ll button your lip and go sit in the corner, all quiet like, looning out your brain. But that don’t mean it ain’t fun. As long as there’s no cops, jocks, bullies, boozeheads, bouncers, ex-girlfriends or your mum to wail on your ass, you’re gonna have a sweet time puffin’ on the sweet Mary-Jane.

Giggling like a mad man, all gnashers and gums. Twisting and wriggling like an epileptic looking into a strobe light. Or sitting stock-still, finding everything amazing or just not thinking about anything. They both amount to the same thing — being able to stare at a wall for hours on end. That’s good old cheap fun. And in these times of economic crisis, we need all the cheap we can get. Get yourself down to the Westville drive-by or hook yourself up with a buddy in Obs. Get on that Swazi or Transkei Reds. Or Malawi Cob, if you’re some sort of sophisticated swine, the kinda guy who eats pate de campagne and cornichon on white bread with the crusts cut off. Yup, a bankie of green is worth its weight in gold, but they’ll sell it to you for brass.

But don’t tell the old brass, she’ll clip you round the earhole. The ladies don’t really like a toker. Unless they are one themselves. And if your missus is, keep her because she’s a good sort. … What the hell’s with all these dumb British words? … I must be getting high just writing this drivel. OK, need to focus, these people need answers, not spittle.

The police! The coppers. How much money are they wasting on drug busts and dagga hauls? Look at this video. It’s ten minutes of CCTV straight outta Hackney. London’s answer to Compton. Look at that first scene. WTF? That’s a drug raid and there’s like twenty cops. All rocking on the taxpayer’s dime. Shit, y’all, that’s your dime, that’s my dime. We’re paying for them to bust some pot smokers. Ok, it’s probably a crack-den or an illegal whorehouse or some other depraved filth, I don’t know, it could be anything. But we’re paying for it. Well, English people are but if this was Hillbrow, that would be our bucks. Or your bucks, because I live in Amsterdam. OK, this is not going so well. Is it getting hot in here? Why is my cat staring at me? Breathe, baby, breathe. Inhale. Exhale. I am an ocean. I am a sea. Dead calm. Washing in, washing out. Everything is fine. Like moondrops on a skypony, running free.

A’ight, I’m back. Lucid. From the root word Lucidus. Light. Enlightened. With knowledge. Like the city I live in, the city of angels. No, that’s L.A. This is Amsterdam. Enlightened to the power of the almighty greenback. The zol-dollar. Amsterdam understands money. They are the undisputed kings of turning a dime. And when you’re selling half a nickel bag for the price of two dime bags, you’re gonna make some cash. In 1995, the last time they calculated these figures, the sale of dope contributed €1,4-billion to the economy. That’s a tonne of money. Well actually it’s closer to three tonnes if you had it in €500 notes. (The €500 note weighs 1,1g. You can do the rest). Imagine what South Africa can do with three tonnes of money? Scratch that figure, Xe.com that moolah and you’ve got 30 tonnes! What could South Africa do with 30 tonnes of cash? Fifteen billion rand. That’s a regmaker right there. That’ll straighten you right up. It will also straighten a few roads, build a couple thousand houses and get some people out of the business of unemployment and into the business of making money. Damn, I’m starting believe myself here. I must be blazed.

Peace y’all. Legalize it. Jah Rastafari. For shizzle. You get the score.