With more than six weeks until my due date, I felt perfectly happy about flying from Ghana to London – it didn't cross my mind that the baby could come early. I had been living in Ghana for two years, but I wanted to give birth in the UK to avoid any problems with the baby's British citizenship.

I was booked into a hospital in the Scottish Borders. My husband, Duncan, would fly over to join me in time for the birth and my mum would look after our four-year-old daughter, Claire, during the labour. A few hours into the flight, I went to the toilet and saw to my horror that I was bleeding. I was worried that there was something wrong with the baby and pressed the alarm button.

A cabin attendant put a call out over the speaker system for any midwives or doctors on board. To my huge relief, a very friendly and calm Dutch doctor appeared. He had been working in the African bush delivering babies with no medical equipment – I couldn't have hoped for better support, especially as contractions had started.

We were moved to first-class. The captain came out of the cockpit and told me landing was not really an option: we were flying over Algeria, there would not be a hospital nearby, and issues with language and currency would make it very difficult for me. He advised me to hold on for the four hours left of the flight.

I had absolute faith in what he said, so I literally crossed my legs and tried to ignore the contractions. The pain didn't worry me – my thoughts were only with the baby, hoping he or she was all right. I knew I had to to stay calm and quiet, not just for me and the baby, but also for my daughter, who was too young to understand what was going on. So I put all my emotions to one side and willed myself to focus on keeping her busy. The other passengers were oblivious to what was happening.

The doctor checked on me periodically, as did the captain. He told me that each airport we flew over had been put on standby in case we had to make an emergency landing. I willed the plane to hurry; I knew I couldn't hold on much longer. We flew over Madrid and the captain explained that, if we reached Paris, we wouldn't stop but would make a dash for London.

Soon the urge to push became unbearable. When the captain at last told me we had passed Paris, I knew the baby wouldn't wait any more. Perhaps, psychologically, being on the home stretch was part of it.

As soon as I said I had to give birth, everyone rushed into action. The other passengers in first-class were moved, my seat was opened out into a bed and a large, yellow plastic sheet stretched over it. A cabin attendant whisked Claire away and the doctor examined me. Within two minutes and with one push, my baby was born. She was a girl and she was healthy and beautiful. I felt overjoyed. The doctor cut the cord with an enormous pair of scissors and all my anxious thoughts disappeared as I held her to me, wrapped in a British Airways blanket. Claire was brought back in and declared that her baby sister looked like ET.

The captain was over the moon, and announced that a new passenger was on board. Everyone clapped and champagne was served all round. Half an hour later, we landed at Gatwick and were immediately taken to hospital in an ambulance. My new baby daughter, although six weeks premature, weighed a healthy 2½kg (5½lb) and, after one night in hospital, we were discharged. My husband flew over two days later and we decided to call our new daughter Shona Kirsty Yves, to give her the initials SKY.

As Shona had been born on a plane, her birth had to be registered by the Civil Aviation Authority. On her first passport, it read, "Born on board a plane at 30,000ft", but that was later changed to, "Born at sea", because that's the nearest official category. Shona is now 21; when she turned 18, British Airways gave her two free return flights to anywhere in the world. She used them for her and her sister to fly to Australia, to surprise their grandmother on her 80th birthday. Whenever I mention to people the way she was born, I end up having to talk about it for hours, but I don't mind. In fact, I love it. All birth stories are memorable, but Shona's was momentous.

• As told to Emily Cunningham

Do you have an experience to share? Email experience@theguardian.com