Ade got out and went to inspect the damage. He didn’t bother to look at the person on the ground. The destroyed motorcycle lay on the road on its side, its tyres still spinning, fuel leaking from its small tank, and debris forming a trail behind it.
Other motorcycles began to park up around us. Someone helped the injured boy to his feet. He held his bleeding elbow. He didn’t have a helmet. I wanted to get out of the car but decided against it when Ade slapped the boy twice in quick succession. He was outnumbered twenty to one; what was he thinking?
The boy said something and Ade slapped him again, grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him to the door.
A huge fellow who had just arrived on his own motorcycle stepped in front of Ade. They started shouting at each other.
The argument grew louder. The mob grew. I got a few menacing glances myself. Ade opened the door and leaned in. He was sweating and he had a spectacularly vicious look on his face.
‘Hand me the bag in the glove compartment,’ he said.
I reached in and found a small leather bag. He opened it, counted out a few naira notes, and returned to the waiting men.
He handed the money to the boy who was still writhing in pain then he slapped him one more time before climbing back into the car, grinning.
By this time the traffic had subsided. He fired the engine and drove at the mob, scattering them and stirring up shouts and obscene gestures in our wake. I expected a stone or some other improvised missile to come crashing through the window.