‘I had scrounged a lift on the third-from-last plane out of Biafra at the end of the Nigerian civil war. My lift was on a clapped-out old DC-4 flown by an Afrikaner, heading for Libreville, Gabon. The fuselage was overloaded with dying Biafran children and Irish nuns. Somewhere over the Niger delta the port outer engine coughed and gave up. We struggled on three engines and turned east towards Gabon; the starboard outer began to splutter. It was clear the old rust-bucket wouldn’t fly, and we sank towards the sea. Hymn-singing began in Afrikaans. I prayed quietly, convinced it was all over. The moon on the water came closer as we nearly skimmed the ocean. Fortunately, the French had built Libreville airport close to the shore. The dangling wheels almost clipped the sand dunes, then we were over concrete. At that moment the engine stopped and the crippled aircraft dropped onto the tarmac. The Afrikaner stopped singing and began to thank the Almighty. It would have been churlish not to follow suit.’