For ages I sat on the plane, still on the runway.

After a while someone announced that there was a problem and that they had to remove some luggage. It was so hot that I could barely breathe, let alone think about what Em might be going through. I could only assume he’d been arrested and worry that the police would soon be boarding the plane to arrest me too.

It didn’t help that the guy sitting next to me was sweating like he’d just finished a football match – he wasn’t that fat either. Why do some people sweat so much? A little while later the lady on the plane brought us all a little bottle of water, about half the size of a proper bottle of water. The not-too-fat guy gulped his down in one shot. I sipped.

The take-off was the worst bit. Not-too-fat-sweats-a-lot had started to stink the place up which made me gag, then the plane was moving, lifting off the ground, accelerating, and my stomach felt like someone was using it to mix a cake in. My head pounded too. I tried closing my eyes, but then I could see my brother being dragged away so I opened them again.

When the plane seemed to calm down a bit, I could think only one thing. Can I do this alone?

I knew that the ideas had been mine. I knew that I’d had to drag Em along half the time. I knew that we wouldn’t have got this far without me. But Em held me together, he kept me on the right path, he stopped me from doing anything too stupid. And now he was gone. It was just me. Alone.

The flight wasn’t like in films where you watch a little television and get served meals on little trays. We did eat, but it was a sandwich, cheese and salad, an apple and another miniature bottle of water. The guy next to me bought a bottle of beer and drank loudly as he listened to tinny-sounding music.

All of this filtered through me as I thought about what I would do next. Our plans had got us this far. I was on my way to Tanzania. But I knew, when the plane landed, a whole city awaited, a whole city in which I needed to find one man, a needle in a big box of needles.

The touch-down was horrific too. I was so worked up from worrying about being alone and how I could find my father, that I began to breathe funny, as if someone was strangling me. It was so bad that Not-too-fat-sweats-a-lot-slurps-when-he-drinks took his headphones out long enough to ask if I was OK. I told him I was fine.

By the time we’d actually stopped and people started to get off the plane I think I was fine, at least fine-ish.

I’ve got this far, I said to myself. It hadn’t gone one hundred per cent to plan, but I was nearly in Tanzania. I could do the rest. I was fine.

Until I saw passport control, that is. My breath caught and I stopped on the balls of my feet, staring ahead. The other passengers poured past me, heading for the little lines.

Last hurdle, I thought and lurched forward.

It was nothing like London.

‘Next!’ The man called. He was sitting behind a little desk, not in his own booth.

‘Passport,’ he said, when I approached.

He flicked through it saying, ‘Good, good, good, goo-ood,’ then stamped one of the pages with a big square stamp.

‘OK, visa?’ he said next.

‘Visa?’ I replied. This was a brand-new word to me. The last of my fine-ness quickly evaporated.

‘Visa, visa,’ he repeated impatiently. A queue of people was forming and I had the same strangling feeling I’d had on the plane.

Last hurdle and I’d stumbled. I shrugged at the man, defeated.

Now, if you’re like me, you won’t know what a visa is either. I’ve found out now, so I’ll tell you. It’s nothing special, it’s just a form thing which says that you’re allowed to go into such and such a country. You have to pay for it. Money, that’s all it takes. It’s like an extra tax for tourists.

I didn’t know any of this. So when the passport man said, ‘Money, money, quick,’ I was surprised, but did what he said.

I pulled the money out from my sock. The man grabbed it and took the two twenty pound notes. That left me ten pounds. I didn’t dare say anything.

Then, with my money in his hand, he called out, ‘Next!’ and turned away from me.

That was it, I couldn’t believe it. I snatched up my passport and fled.

On the plane, I’d had vague ideas about finding a hotel first, but with so little money left that seemed unlikely. Next I thought I’d find a police station or something like that, and see if they could help, but I was so shaken up by the visa incident that I didn’t dare go to the police. Finally, I thought I would hire a taxi. A taxi driver would know the city, would know where the gangsters were, might have even seen the tall man whose photo was nestled inside my other sock. But, again, the money was all but gone.

A new plan didn’t strike me as I half-walked, half-ran away from passport control.

Nothing came as I waited to collect my bag, or as I lugged it towards the exits.

Still my mind was blank when I walked through the nearest doors.

Out I stepped into the blazing African sun and straight into a man I hadn’t thought I’d ever see again.