ABDUL MUSA ADAM
WHEN HE WAS 15 years old, Abdulkareem (‘Abdul’) Musa Adam climbed into the small dark space above a lorry’s wheel arch. He was wearing thick gloves and a green padded jacket, gifts from Walid, an elderly Tunisian man who had brought the teenager to this French industrial estate where lengthy lorries were lined up for long-distance travel.
In order to fit into the cramped cubbyhole of the artic that boasted an English numberplate, Abdul had folded his body, and clung on to a piece of metal with those gloved hands. He remained like this for the next 15 hours, long enough for night to turn to day and back to night again as mile after mile of tarmac whooshed past in dangerously close proximity to his fragile form.
“Just trust in God,” Walid had said as he prepared to leave the Sudanese boy alone in the confined darkness. “Think of everything you have done. You have survived a war in Sudan.
