I see a boy stooped on his scooter at the traffic light, head bowed, attentive to the messages on his smartphone, clean shoes and hands gripping the handlebars. He carries a red insulated bag on his back, resting one foot on the grey pavement, cautious of the traffic hustle and bustle, thinking of his clients. The sun sets fire to the streets of Bucharest, car horns blare on the tree-lined boulevards and it is a warm morning, almost like in Senegal.