We idled at a red light in an air-conditioned sports car, staring vacantly through the stark, glass buildings oppressing the Nigerian metropolis.
My reverie was disturbed by a child of perhaps six tapping insistently on the window. Her lips scraped the window, her black cane-rowed hair whitened with dust. Her mother stood several metres away, an identical child tied to her back with a colourful wrapper.
Their ploy was apparent but as she stood before skyscrapers built by former street urchins, I couldn’t help but wonder when two are equally disadvantaged, what propels one to stand and one to be carried.