Iboga: Forbidden Fruit
The mystery around the wonder-drug comes to a close.
Read the first part of the story here!
“I’ll be back in a while; you sure you don’t want anything?” said Harley at the front door.
“No”, said Sam, for what felt like the millionth time. Harley gave him a suspicious stare before leaving.
Sam took a deep, ragged breath. It had been four days since his brush with ibogaine. Though it had been horrible at the time, he had felt extremely pumped-up in the hours afterward. Out on his deliveries, he felt like he was seeing the world through a new lens. Everything seemed a little more real: every sight, every sound, every sensation. That night, he had been the life of the party at his friend’s farewell, after which he had gotten the best sleep of his life. The next morning, he had even decided to bring in a few lifestyle changes, none of which Harley noticed.
Of course, the effect wasn’t as pronounced now. Sam’s joints had been feeling a little sore too; he had probably hurt himself during the trip. Everything else felt normal, however. Despite his profession, his life had a certain monotony to it, and iboga had been a wonderful break. Now, he found himself sinking back into the mundane, slowly but surely; except for his new hobby…
He walked to his bedroom purposefully and pulled open the lower drawer of his bedside cabinet. He lifted out a clear sachet of white powder and ambled over to the table. After doing the deed, he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes, waiting.
Sam woke up with a start. Someone was shaking him hard and shouting something he couldn’t quite understand. He shook his head to clear it. As his vision slowly cleared, Harley came into focus, standing at the edge of his bed.
“What the hell was that?”
Sam kept quiet. He was still a bit groggy.
“It looked like you were having a fit or — a dream? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Sam mumbled. His heart was pounding; he had noticed the sachet of ibogaine, still lying on his table. He just had to distract Harley —
“I think you’re just stressed out,” said Harley. “I’ll get you some water.” He left the room. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He hopped off the bed and slipped the packet back into his cabinet.
That night, Sam tossed about in his bed as he considered his situation. Harley seemed to be spending a lot more time at home of late; was it a coincidence? He was finding it harder and harder to pursue his little “hobby”. He needed to be alone at least for an hour or two. His trips weren’t exactly discreet. If he actually got caught, he would lose his source. He wasn’t sure what he would do then. He finally drifted off.
The next morning, Sam paced about his room. His joints still ached, and strange blisters had popped up all over the back of his hand. He remembered Harley talking about the drug being deadly; surely that had been exaggeration? He brushed the thought aside — a few bruises wouldn’t kill him.
Harley left on an errand around noon. Sam hurried to his cabinet and opened the lower drawer. His heart leapt to his throat.
The package was gone.
Sam stopped at the cafe on his way back home. His head was spinning. He had left the apartment as soon as he discovered the empty drawer; he needed time to think. So Harley had discovered his tiny stash, and taken it without saying a word to him. Was he on ibogaine too? Sam reckoned he might still have the original package. He could get some more.
When he got back, Harley was at the kitchen table, whistling to himself while he counted a wad of notes.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Sam paused; surely he had more to say? However, it seemed that no more words were forthcoming, and Sam withdrew to his room, perplexed. Was he imagining things? He checked the cabinet again. Empty. A wave of nausea rolled over him. It had been more than a day since his last dose of ibogaine and his body wanted more.There had to be more in Harley’s room. He would have to try his luck the next time he was alone.
Around noon, Harley left to visit his family — he would be back the next day. Sam slipped into Harley’s room and started methodically checking shelves, careful not to disturb anything. He needed only five minutes to find the forbidden package. As he scooped out a bit, sickly pus dripped from the sores on his hand. They had persistently opened and reopened, and he was scared to see a doctor. Just a bit, he told himself as he stowed his loot in his pocket.
Back in his room, Sam embarked on another trip.
When Sam woke up, his body felt like it had aged a few years, in sharp contrast to the state of ecstasy he was in. He seemed to be struggling to breathe. However, he felt content and basked in the sensation for a while. His arm itched. As he scratched it, the itch turned into a sharp pain and he looked down in surprise. There was a long slash running along the length of his right forearm. Sam blinked. There was no way that could have happened in his sleep. The skin around the wound was oddly wrinkled, almost as if…
Beads of sweat appeared on Sam’s face as the realization hit him. But he had to be sure. He put his right index finger in his left palm, took a deep breath, and rubbed. A moment later, he was blinking back tears. A patch of skin the size of a Band-Aid had neatly separated from his palm and blood was now ominously oozing out of the gaping wound. All of a sudden, his whole body felt uncomfortable and itchy. Don’t scratch, he told himself. He gripped the blanket, but that was enough to peel off the tips of his fingers. He bit his lip in pain, only to taste blood.
He gingerly got out of bed and paced about. He vaguely remembered Harley saying he would be back only the next day. That was okay; he could manage himself. He reckoned any doctor would figure out what he had been up to. Or would they? This was iboga, after all. Sam shook his head. He would wait for Harley’s help.
That night, Sam slept fitfully. When he woke up, his whole body was covered in tiny cuts. He got up and stumbled towards his phone. This was too much. He had to call someone. Something was off, however. He felt unsteady and he was starting to get a throbbing headache. The phone’s screen swam in and out of focus. He knew only one solution. He dropped the phone and went over to his cabinet in a daze. He took out that sachet, his sweet escape, and dumped everything on the table. He tried bending down but only succeeded in slamming his face into the line. When he managed to lift his head, he left a bit of skin from his nose on the table but barely noticed.
Sam sat on the bed with a thump. He had been meaning to do something… He blinked rapidly, trying to remember what it had been. He stared at his hand in wonder as the remaining skin slowly sloughed off and his blood made its escape…
Ibogaine is a psychoactive drug that’s made from the roots of the iboga plant, a perennial shrub that grows in Africa. Opioid addicts have sung praises of the de-addictive powers of the drug, which supposedly not only cures them of addiction, but also ensures a withdrawal-free recovery. However, due to research-related deaths in the ’90s, the drug is now legal in only a handful of countries. Source: Wired
