He moves like a man used to commanding a crowd. His step is theatrical and precise, a deliberate procession even when walking through a market. His face is sun browned and creased with laugh lines, the skin near his eyes puckered from years of squinting into ring lights and midday sun. He often tilts his head when listening, as if framing each incoming sentence for an audience. Unexpectedly, his left hand has faint burn scars that look like the pattern of an old branding iron. When he smiles his teeth flash white; when he is thinking he absently draws tiny loops on his palm with a painted fingernail.