Printed copies of The Price of Freedom were delivered to the busy, ramshackle offices of New Namibia Books before I was due to go off on maternity leave. I took one and carried it over to my desk as carefully as I would a newborn. Setting it down, I ran my hand over the yellow-brown cover emblazoned with the image of a confident, smiling Ellen. We had chosen that photograph, taken in 1997, together. I turned the book over, and on the back was one of the few images that had survived her years of exile. It was a photograph taken for an identity card in The Gambia.