I was 11 years old, hidden among sacks of grain in the back of a truck, watching the stars through gaps in the tarpaulin as we rolled south through the Nigerian night. The truck smelled of diesel and dust and the sharp sweetness of fermented cassava. I had no money, no clear plan beyond: get to Ibadan, and a hope that the driver wouldn't discover me. What kind of desperation leads a child to run away from military school, to hide in a stranger's truck, and travel 900 kilometres alone in the vague hope that it would drive through his home town?

Read: In 2025, I thought a lot about the 11-year-old stowaway

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