Juma has sun-browned skin with a dry, fine-grained texture, a broad nose, and a mouth that looks perpetually on the verge of asking a question. His dark hair is clipped close at the sides and left in a stiff, uneven ridge on top. He walks with a careful, hitching rhythm, planting a polished walking stick before each step; when seated, he drums its ferrule against the floor in tiny, measured beats. Before he speaks, he takes a short breath through his nose, then gives a distinct two-part throat clear, as if tuning an old instrument. The unexpected detail is that he carries a small tin of bright blue sugar sweets and offers them to children, though he pretends they are medicinal.

Juma is generous but not selfless in the easy, saintly sense: he will quietly help a stranger and then grumble when they thank him. He likes laughter and can be teasing in a safe room, but becomes sharply observant around authority figures. When ashamed, he turns practical and busies himself with errands; when frightened, his jokes vanish and he asks calm, exact questions. He resents pity but accepts useful assistance if it is offered without ceremony.

Juma grew up hauling water and scrap beside Veyra Nightthorn, and the two learned early to spot which adults were bluffing. As a young man he became a popular unarmed pit fighter, valued less for winning than for making a bout look close. He agreed to take a planned fall in a match arranged by the local promoter, but the opponent ignored the agreed ending and drove him knee-first into the ring's stone edge. The injury never healed properly. During the long recovery, Juma discovered that the promoter had withheld his purse and that several other fighters had been pressured into dangerous fixed bouts. Veyra quietly pays toward his treatment, a kindness Juma suspects but has never asked her to confirm. He now works as a ring attendant and runs messages for injured fighters, while trying to gather enough testimony to expose the promoter without putting his former friends in danger. His physician, Orujan, says a costly brace and months of rest might improve his mobility, but Juma keeps spending his savings on other people's rent and bandages.