Eight months ago, Deshaun Durham walked out of a Kansas prison two weeks before Christmas. He had been sentenced to serve eight years for cannabis possession, two pounds that in a legal state might barely raise an eyebrow. In Kansas, it was enough to brand him a felon, strip away his freedom, and nearly derail the rest of his life.
“I was actually given an eight-year prison sentence for two pounds,” Durham told me in our conversation. “In the cannabis community, two pounds is like, okay, that’s nothing. But in Kansas, where I reside, two pounds is so much.”
Durham’s story could have ended like so many others in prohibition states: wasted years, broken families, and a permanent mark on his record. Instead, thanks to the advocacy of the Last Prisoner Project (LPP) and the intervention of Governor Laura Kelly, Durham had his sentence commuted. He served three years before walking free. Now, at just 25 years old, he’s rebuilding his life as a pre-law student at Kansas State University and using his voice to fight for those still behind bars.
Early Life and First Encounters with Cannabis
Durham grew up in Manhattan, Kansas, a tall, athletic kid immersed in sports. “I was always that kid, I was really big into sports,” he recalled. “I played football, basketball, and track my whole life. I was always the tallest in my class, about 6’5, so I’d get picked on sometimes, but I found my place through athletics.”
It was during those formative years, around age 12, that he first encountered cannabis. “My friend was really big into the weed culture. This was around 2012, when Wiz Khalifa was blowing up, Kid Cudi was a name, and Colorado had just legalized marijuana. Weed culture was just now evolving. I ended up trying it, and I realized how much it really helped with the anxiety and stress of the day.”
He emphasized he wasn’t promoting adolescent use, just speaking his truth. “It’s my story. Cannabis has really helped me, especially with anxiety. If I wake up and take a wake-and-bake, it clears my mind. It gets me ready for the day.”
From those early experiences, cannabis became both a coping mechanism and a constant companion. He describes himself as someone who’s “been in the cannabis game more than half my life.”
Falling Into the Dark Web Trap
As a teenager, Durham was fascinated by computers. He built his own rigs, spent hours online, and stumbled onto the early world of the dark web. “I knew all about the Silk Road and everything. I thought it was so cool that you could just purchase cannabis on the internet like that.”
Naïve but curious, he began ordering cannabis through online marketplaces, paying in Bitcoin. “I was like 17 or 18. I’d just have it shipped to my address under my own name. I thought, in my mind, it’s just weed, so they’re not going to trip. I even thought if someone at the post office saw it, they’d just laugh and throw it away.”
But it didn’t take long for law enforcement to catch on. Durham remembers one package that didn’t arrive. He did what most teens would do: he called the post office to ask about it. Unbeknownst to him, the DEA was already intercepting his mail and building a case.
“They were surveilling my apartment building. I didn’t know DEA agents were literally walking the halls while I was inside smoking.”
Six months later, the knock came. “It’s 7 in the morning. I’m heating my e-nail, ready for a dab, and I hear this loud bang, ‘Police! Search warrant!’ I thought my friends were pranking me. I open the door, and there are twelve DEA agents and local police with rifles and green lasers pointed at me. They told me to get on the ground.”
The raid left his apartment trashed and Durham facing charges that would upend his life.
Sentenced to Eight Years
At trial, Durham hoped his clean record and young age would matter. Instead, the prosecutor made her stance clear. “She looked at my attorney, looked me in the face, and said, ‘Your client is going to prison because he had marijuana.’ Hearing that was deflating.”
The plea options were grim: 12 years or 8 years with the chance, though not the promise of probation. “The judge declined all my departure requests. I was 19 years old, no prior criminal history, and he still sentenced me to 92 months about eight years ago.”
Durham’s shock deepened once he entered prison. “There were guys in there for murder and sex crimes serving less time than me,” he said. “I wasn’t flooding the streets with drugs. I was mostly just smoking and sharing with friends. And yet here I was, sentenced like I was some kingpin.”
Life Inside
Durham was first sent to El Dorado Correctional Facility, a supermax prison housing notorious inmates like the BTK killer. He spent four months in a program called RDU, locked in a 10×10 cell 23 hours a day. “You get 30 minutes out for calls or a shower. That’s it. No AC, 130 degrees, walls sweating, bed bugs crawling on you every night. The COs even cut the knobs off the windows so we couldn’t get fresh air. It was literally hell.”
After El Dorado, he was transferred to Hutchinson Correctional Facility, the oldest prison in Kansas. Conditions were barely better. “For three years, I was getting bitten by bed bugs. I still have scars on my arms. We were in dorms with 75 people, no AC, just heat and infestations.”
Amid the despair, Durham found solace in football. A lifelong Kansas City Chiefs fan, he stayed in his fantasy league with friends on the outside. “I’d call them during the draft on the jail phone. It gave me something to look forward to. On Sundays, I’d sit and watch every game. It made time move faster.”
In prison, Durham met others with similar stories. “My bunkmate, Antonio Wyatt, was also locked up for cannabis. He introduced me to Dante West from the Last Prisoner Project. Antonio was a huge reason I even got on their radar.”
Another inmate, Devin Wilson, was serving five years for three ounces. “Me and I bonded right away, we’re both Chiefs fans. When I found out I was getting out early, I made sure to advocate for him, too. Now he’s also a Last Prisoner Project constituent.”
This sense of solidarity shaped Durham’s mission. We’re all stuck together because at the end of the day, we’re all in here for cannabis. It’s not right. These guys don’t have a voice, so I’m going to be that voice until the day I die.”
The Last Prisoner Project and a Letter From the Governor
Durham’s case gained traction thanks to grassroots advocacy. His mom and friends wrote letters. Supporters at the honey factory where he worked while incarcerated added their voices. The Last Prisoner Project connected him with high-profile allies, including musician Melissa Etheridge, who personally wrote to the governor.
“Then I heard that Barry Grissom, former U.S. Attorney for Kansas and Missouri, picked up my case. That was big. Dante [West] kept telling me, ‘Just hang in there, we’re going to get you out.’”
Durham eventually interviewed with Governor Kelly’s chief legal counsel. “I thought I bombed it,” he admitted. “Then, the day after the election, I get a message from Mary Bailey at LPP: ‘The governor of Kansas commuted your sentence.’ I had to wipe my glasses. I didn’t believe it.”
Even the prison lawyer was stunned. “He said, ‘I’ve never seen this happen in 30 years.’ That’s how rare clemency is.”
A New Mission
Released in December, Durham wasted no time turning his ordeal into advocacy. “I just sat there thinking about the guys still in there. This is my passion, no, I want to help people and make a difference.”
He set up an information booth for the Last Prisoner Project at Manhattan’s New Year’s Eve ball drop, attended Unity Week in Washington, D.C., and began telling his story on Capitol Hill. He also directly supports prisoners raising commissary funds and buying meals for inmates at the state fair.
Durham is now a pre-law student at Kansas State University. “The day I graduate is the same day I was supposed to be released from prison. Instead of being behind bars, I’ll be walking across a stage. That’s powerful.”
His long-term vision is clear: law school, advocacy, and changing the system from within. “I want to inspire the younger generation to be civically engaged because that’s how we end up with laws that put people in prison for a plant. It sucks that it took me going to prison to find my purpose, but now I know: I want to be a lawyer and fight for cannabis prisoners.”
Full Circle
Durham remains rooted in Manhattan, Kansas, the same town that sentenced him. “In some ways, I’m a beam of hope for people here. They see me, someone who went away for weed, now free, in school, and advocating.”
Next year, he begins an internship at a local law firm, sitting in the same courthouse where he was once sentenced. “I’ll be in the same room with the same judge and prosecutor who gave me eight years. But this time, I won’t be a defendant. I’ll be a pre-law intern. That’s the full circle moment.”
“I just want to keep pushing the blessing forward. I got blessed, and now I want to make sure others do too.”
Closing Thoughts
Durham’s story highlights both the cruelty and absurdity of America’s cannabis laws, especially in prohibition states like Kansas. Nonviolent cannabis prisoners remain locked up while legalization spreads across the country. According to Durham, there are still more than 800 people in Kansas prisons for cannabis.
“I’ll always be about the little guys,” he said. “Because at the end of the day, this is just a plant. And nobody should be in prison for it.”
Photos courtesy of Deshaun Durham.
