It had been seven long days since the MV Tartarus cargo ship left the Port of Conakry.

Deep inside the belly of the ship, Kwesi sat on the floor in total darkness. The heavy engines rumbled day and night, sending strong vibrations through the metal walls of his container. The steel box swayed back and forth, moving with the waves of the Atlantic Ocean.

He was officially a stowaway.

The heat inside the container was terrible. The air was thick with the smell of rust, dirty engine oil, and the raw cocoa beans packed in burlap sacks around him. Kwesi took slow, shallow breaths to save oxygen and stay calm. His hands reached out in the dark to touch his belongings: the waterproof bag holding Forson’s books, his heavy backpack full of electronics, dried food, first-aid items and a few pieces of clothing, and three plastic jerrycans of fresh water. It was just enough water to keep one man alive for the long trip to Tilbury Docks.

One man. That was the plan.

To pass the time, Kwesi closed his eyes and slipped into the memory of himself and Oldman Forson at the Ashanti Central Prison. But suddenly, a strange noise broke his focus.

It was faint. Kwesi stopped moving. His strong arms tightened. He pressed his ear against the cold steel wall.

Tap… scrape… whisper.

It was not the sound of shifting boxes. It was human. The sound came from the next hold, separated only by a small air vent and a wall of wooden cocoa crates.

Kwesi’s first thought was to ignore it. He had learned how to survive the hard way in Abidjan and Conakry. A hidden man does not speak. He does not go looking for trouble. If other people had sneaked onto the ship, they were a danger to him.

But the whispering grew louder and more fearful. He heard a soft cry in the dark, followed by someone speaking angrily in the Wolof language.

Kwesi stood up without making a sound. Moving smoothly, he squeezed through the narrow spaces between the cocoa crates until he reached the back air vent. He looked through the metal holes.

A tiny bit of light from a hatch high above showed the next cargo room. There, hiding behind a large machine, were five people. They were dressed in sweaters, but shaking even in the heat of the machine, and looked very afraid. Four of them were young men. Their eyes were wide with fear as they realised they had been at sea for a week with little food and water left.

The fifth person was a woman.

She sat a little away from the men. She did not look scared; she looked like she was thinking hard. Even in the bad light, Kwesi could see her light-skinned face. She was whispering to one of the frightened men in French. Her voice was strong and sharp.

“Keep your voice down,” she warned him. “If the sailors hear you, they will not just arrest us. They will throw us into the sea. You know the stories.”

Kwesi watched her. She held a small, open pocket knife tightly in her right hand. She was smart and ready to fight.

Kwesi stepped back. Leave them alone, his mind told him. They are not your responsibility.

He went back to his spot and sat down. Two days later, he heard the loud sound of metal scraping. Someone was trying to open the heavy air vent between their containers.

“I know someone is in there,” a woman’s voice whispered through the vent. It was her. She spoke in both French and English. Her French was that of West Africa, with a Senegalese accent. But her English did not sound like the English spoken in Ghana or anywhere in West Africa. It sounded exactly like the British news reporters Kwesi used to hear on the BBC radio. “I can smell the fresh water. Please. We do not have enough water for five people.”

Kwesi opened his eyes in the dark. He moved quietly back to the vent. He did not turn on his torch. He just stood in the dark.

“Who are you?” Kwesi asked in a low, rough voice.

The woman jumped a little but quickly answered. “My name is Amina,” she whispered, leaning closer to the vent.

“Where did you learn to speak English like that?” Kwesi asked coldly.

“I was born in Senegal, but my mother was British,” Amina replied quickly, hoping he would listen. “She was from a place called Croydon in London. I used to live there. I have family there. I just… I need to get back.”

Kwesi thought about this. A connection to London. A British mother.

Forson’s map led to the UK. Kwesi knew the coordinates and the banking codes. But he knew nothing about the streets of England. He had no friends or guides in the country he was trying to enter.

He looked back at his three jerrycans he had smuggled on board. Giving away water was a big risk. But going to the UK with no local knowledge was an even bigger risk. The powerful “Nana K” identity he wanted to build needed people to help him. Sometimes, you have to buy loyalty with water.

“Push your cup through the hole at the bottom,” Kwesi ordered softly.

A moment later, a water gallon scraped through a small gap at the bottom of the wall. Kwesi picked it up, opened one of his precious jerrycans, and poured. In the quiet dark, the sound of the pouring water was very loud.

He pushed the full gallon back through the opening.

“Drink slowly,” Kwesi warned with no emotion. “And keep your friends quiet. Because if the sailors come down here… I was never here.”

“I understand,” Amina whispered back. Her fingers touched his hand for a brief second in the dark. “I owe you my life.”

Yes, Kwesi thought as he walked back to the centre of his steel container. You do.