The opium hit China hard after the wars — Men lay in dens with their pipes, women too. The smoke curled up and they dreamed. They did not work, sold their things, some sold their children.
Forty million addicts by 1880; Maybe more, nobody counted them all. In cities like Shanghai and Canton half the men smoked — The British ships came and unloaded the chests. The money went back to India where they grew the poppies.
These dens in Fuzhou — Dark places, men on wooden platforms — Their faces yellow and thin; Their eyes far away. The smell stays in clothes for days. Sweet and rotten.
The government men took bribes — The foreigners had gunboats in the harbor. What could China do? They had lost the wars; They had signed the papers in blood.
But, the addiction ate China from inside–A nation on its back dreaming while the world changed.
Not until Mao did it end — His men were hard. They shot dealers at dawn against walls. The addicts suffered and died or they got clean.
