Iboga: The Elixir of Sobriety
It was a bright and cloudless day. A young jogger whistled to himself as he passed through an idyllic neighbourhood, staring without emotions at the pristinely pruned hedges. There was hardly anyone else on the road — perfect. He quietly turned into a dark alley and spotted someone skulking in the shadows. He tensed up a little, then relaxed when he realized who it was. The person moved forward — a teen girl in a hoodie.
“Did you bring what I asked for?”
The jogger replied, “Only if you have the dough.”
The hooded girl pulled out a wad of notes and thrust it into the jogger’s hands. The jogger counted the money and seemed satisfied. He pulled out a small paper bag and handed it to her. He turned around without another word and jogged away, wondering if he could stop for coffee before getting back to work.
Harley Gunn had always been an impatient man, and now he was starting to get restless. He was lying on the couch in the apartment he shared with his business partner who was out on delivery but should have been back by now. There was only so much you could watch on Sunday-morning TV. Finally, he heard a knock at the front door and peered through the peephole.
“How did it go, Sam?”, he said, opening the door.
“Piece of cake, the streets were empty,” said Sam, munching on a bagel. “The girl had the money too, no problem.” He paused. “Remember the good old days, when we had to hustle hard to get paid?”
Harley laughed. “With reputation comes respect. Speaking of hustle, look what I picked up at the docks last night.” He pulled a brown package out of a cupboard and slammed it on the coffee table. “This,” he said with a theatrical flourish, “is the bane of our existence, my friend.”
Sam examined the parcel. On the label, he spotted the word Iboga amidst a lot of Spanish. “What do you mean?”
“This is ibogaine, Sam, supposedly a wonder drug. Give an addict a dose, and it sends them on the trip of their life. But here’s the kicker: when they come back down, they’re off substances forever; no withdrawal, no side-effects. So you see how this could be detrimental to our business.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. It’s totally legit, I got it from someone I know. I’m planning to track down whoever’s shipping it in and teach them a lesson. We can’t afford to lose customers,” said Harley.
“Well, even if it’s true, it’s still a drug; what if our buyers get hooked on ibogaine instead? I’m guessing not many people know where to get it; we could bring in some real -”
“I doubt anyone’s going to get addicted to ibogaine; too much and you’re dead. And I don’t mean normal overdosing. Look at it this way: in your whole lifetime, there’s a limited number of times you can take ibogaine before you’re done for. Anyway, as I said, one time and you’ve got a fresh start.”
Sam couldn’t believe it; it sounded a little too good to be true, too easy. He had known addicts who had spent years in rehab, only to relapse and spiral even further. Later that day, he did a bit of research. Staring at the computer screen, he started to appreciate just how hard it must have been for Harley to get his hands on the ibogaine. “Ibogaine medication” had resulted in quite a few deaths, and as a result, possession was illegal in almost every country.
Sam glanced at the package on the table. He was clean himself; he had never understood the appeal of losing yourself to the rush of substance abuse. His partner had gone to negotiate with a supplier; he was alone. He had been planning to watch Liverpool’s match, but on the other hand, for the first time in his life, he felt tempted.
A little shouldn’t hurt, should it? It’s medicinal, after all…
Sam found himself picking up the package. He found a tiny tear and pried it open. He spilled a little of the ibogaine on the table, bent down, and straightened back up. He waited for it to kick in, holding his breath.
Sam walked to a window and looked out over the city. The sun was just setting on the horizon, while the moon was racing upwards. Wait, that can’t be right, he thought, giggling a little. He turned around and saw that the living room had turned into a pool of some orange liquid. The part of him that was still grounded told him to sleep it out. He waded to the bedroom and was greeted by the sight of an astronaut cradling a stone heart. He stumbled backwards in fear. Head spinning, he lost his balance. He flailed around as he tried to keep his head above the surface of the orange pool. Sam’s hold on reality kept loosening, and everything went black.
When Sam came to, he realized he was lying in a puddle of sweat and vomit on the very solid floor of his living room. He tried to remember what had happened. One thing was sure: Harley’s definition of “trip of a lifetime” needed some serious tweaking. However, Sam’s head felt incredibly clear. Sunlight flooded the room; he must have tripped through the night. He got up and spotted the newspaper. When he read the date, he blanched.
It was Tuesday. He had been out forty hours.
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Disclaimer: The author or the publication does not endorse the use of drugs and/or other addictive substances in any shape or form.
