I’ve run out of cash and cereals. I might have to sleep with some man tonight. He could be lacking in hygiene, obese or a psycho who’d choke me to death. If I survive, I hope I get paid because nothing’s guaranteed a migrant on these routes. When Tita from Cameroon fell off the speeding truck in the Sahara, we didn’t stop; neither was justice demanded when the pregnant Ivorian was shot at Tripoli without warning. As we sit in this empty fuel tanker, en route al-Qatron, I think about the idle blanket on my bed in Lokoja.