They call it Karambela, but it’s not a Swahili word; rather, it’s a Somali corruption of the Italian word “caramella.” It’s the new synthetic drug that’s gaining traction along the Kenyan coast. It first arrived in Lamu, where it has spawned criminal gangs among young people that not only plague the mainland (as we know, the island is a “bubble” that’s always been very safe, and we hope it stays that way) but also risk being lured into Islamic terrorism.
But now Karambela, a mixture of benzodiazepines and other chemical junk, risks contaminating Malindi and Mombasa as well.

The Kenyan coast has always had its vices, like all the coasts of the world. But they were vices with a history, almost a ritual. Today, however, a drug arrives with no memory, no roots, no respite. And when something has no roots, it is often because it only wants to destroy those of others.
The problem is not just a new substance. The problem is that this substance arrives in a void. A void that has the face of young people without jobs, without prospects, without a concrete idea of a future that isn’t a phone, a bet, or an escape.
For years, along the coast, the ultimate “high” was bhang, the local marijuana that, rather than setting spirits ablaze, made them drowsy and philosophical. Or miraa, which kept you awake and talkative, but hardly turned you into a public menace. And then there was palm wine, which belonged to another generation: that of fathers, uncles, fishermen who laughed too much and then vanished into a sleep as heavy as the sea at night.
They were imperfect drugs, certainly. But they had a human rhythm. They lifted you up and then brought you back down. They made you waste time, not lose yourself.
Somali candy does not.
Karambela is a product of another era: that of extreme chemistry, of random mixtures, of pills where you never really know what’s inside. Benzodiazepines, they say. And other things. Always “other things,” because in these cases the truth is a detail that interests no one. Not those who sell it, not those who consume it.
The result is plain for all to see, at least in Lamu: groups of young people who no longer just run wild, but organize themselves. Gangs. Bands. Sudden, gratuitous, often incomprehensible violence. No longer just a circus brawl, but coordinated attacks, thefts, acts that have something even more disturbing: the total loss of boundaries.
And when you lose all boundaries, you become fertile ground for those who want to erase those boundaries entirely.
This is where the issue gets trickier. Because among these new gangs, born more out of boredom than ideology, some have begun to see a potential pool of foot soldiers. Young people who are already angry, already on edge, already willing to do anything to feel like they belong to something. It doesn’t take much to push them one step further.
It is no coincidence that the first signs are coming from a sensitive area like Lamu, a natural gateway to a border where trafficking and influences have always intermingled. Drugs, as is often the case, are never just drugs. They are a language. And someone, somewhere, is speaking it very well.
Meanwhile, Karambela is on the move. Silent, cheap, easy to transport. And above all, new. Because young people no longer want “old people’s stuff.” Bhang is slow, miraa is boring, palm wine is for nostalgics. They need something that hits immediately, hard, without explanation.
And so the journey continues south, along the coast. Malindi watches, Mombasa begins to worry. Because certain waves make no sound when they arrive. You only see them when they’ve already changed the shape of the shore.
The risk isn’t just health-related. It’s social. It’s cultural. It’s generational. A drug that doesn’t calm you but fires you up, that doesn’t isolate you but pushes you toward others with aggression, is a fuse in an already fragile context.
And so the question isn’t just how to stop Karambela. But why it finds such fertile ground.
Perhaps because, in the end, it isn’t a “candy” that ruins a generation. It’s the fact that that generation has nothing better to suck on.