Watch out kids!

It was early morning, we were lost in Katsina, and I had no idea how close we were to seeing a child die.
A very helpful and kind stranger had broken off an appointment he had to show us where we were supposed to be going, and even help us find some batteries for my midget voice recorder. But we weren’t having much luck, all the shops were closed.
We stood near a bend in the road, looking lost and confused, discussing where to look next for the batteries when I saw the boy. I was doing that duplicitous British thing of trying outwardly to dissuade our helpful guide from making an effort, so it didn’t appear that I was being a burden -when actually I really needed his help. Of course he wasn’t having any of it, and was determined to help us find what we wanted.
All around us were children on the way to school. They were in their white shirts and green trousers or headscarves. Standing on the side of the road like that I was an object of major fascination. Two girls about seven years old came and stood next to me, just looking.
But the boy was on the other side of the road, chewing a straw. His face was screwed up into a squint against the strong morning sunlight, staring directly at me with that childlike inquisitiveness that excludes everything else. He stepped forward into the road.
I only caught a glimpse of what happened, the next thing was a screech from a motorcycle’s brakes. I saw the guy had lost control of the bike. He desperately held onto it to prevent it from escaping in a low-side skid.
The kid, one pace into the road, looked puzzled, as if he hadn’t seen what had nearly happened. The bike must have missed him by an inch and a half. He didn’t flinch a bit, and the man on the bike glared at him in disbelief. He righted himself, moved his yellow robe out of the way of the wheels, readjusted his gold rimmed shades and was off with out a word.
I’m sure the boy would have been mincemeat.
An incident in my late teens still haunts me. A foolhardy youth, I would step off the kerb just in time to clear the rear bumper of a passing car when I crossed. As long as you had an eye on things, what was the point in waiting? I was at a pedestrian crossing, eyeing up the approaching traffic for a gap that was just big enough for me to cross in. I launched myself off the kerb into the fast depleting gap, and was horrified to catch in the corner of my eye a small boy next to me do the same, only a yard behind me. ‘He’ll never make it!’ I thought in a panic. I threw my weight onto the back foot, shoving myself in to reverse, plonked my hand on his shoulder and held him back. The driver passed us by with a look of reproach and contempt. At least the little tyke was safe!
“OI! Get your @!&*ing hand off me!” said the boy. His mother swore at me too. I’d created quite a scene. By contrast no one seemed to notice the boy in the road in Katsina, not even our guide who was standing next to me.I suppose I may be a rather amusing, exotic sight when I’m out and about; the scruffy-haired, sweating, red-faced white man. But I have a message for the children reading this column. When you see bature, Stop. Look. Listen. Think before you cross the road. Please! I can’t have that sort of thing on my conscience.