‘Save it for afterward,’ said Alebayo. He lifted his hand again, and as though he were signalling the start of a race, or were a Roman emperor ruling on the death of a gladiator, he suddenly brought it down, slapping it against the side of his trouser-leg. ‘Arrest them,’ he said quietly. And as his men moved forward to carry out the command, he looked across at Isabelle and me with something that looked very much like disgust. ‘Arrest all of them.’

The rain beat against the tarpaulin above us, and I watched it bounce off the receding mud track, so thick it was almost impossible to see past. I was getting my ride, but it wasn’t in a jeep and it wasn’t to Udi. Instead, I was shackled to my seat in the back of a dilapidated lorry, headed in the direction, presumably, of Alebayo’s headquarters in Port Harcourt.

Alebayo was in one of the vehicles ahead of us, along with Gunner, his men and the Biafrans. Before setting off, he had assigned three men to guard me and Isabelle. Our bags and the camera had been confiscated, and we’d been chained together and pushed into the truck with about a dozen soldiers.

So we sat, thighs touching - it was hard to tell where my sweat ended and hers began, even through layers of fabric. The smell of sweat was so heady in the confined space, in fact, that I was finding it a struggle to focus on our guards. They were seated on the opposite bench; all three had sub-machine guns aimed at our legs, and were keeping their eyes glued to us.

There was no reasonable hope of escape - I’d realized that at once. I was in poor shape to attempt it, anyway, as the last couple of days were choosing their moment to catch up with me: my eyes were stinging, perhaps because I’d only slept a few hours since leaving London, and I had a nagging ache in my back and down my left thigh, both of which were probably gifts from a nasty little Russian with a sand rake. None of this compared to my thirst, though; my tongue was working frantically in a desperate attempt to create more saliva. I hadn’t had any of the water that had been handed round in the plane - I’d spent enough time in tropical climates to know not to drink from an open bottle - but now I was sorely regretting the decision. Thinking about it would only make it worse, I knew, but I couldn’t help myself. My eyes only saw moisture: the rain outside; the sweat on the faces of my companions; even the polished metal poles that ran around the roof of the truck holding the tarpaulin up seemed to have a liquid quality to them.