“I have lived a kind of life which is not so much easy,” Bonny says, dropping his eyes to finger a thin, golden scar in the rock’s face. He presses it gently and looks upward to meet my gaze.
The rock is large. From the dusty street it seems to swell from the red landscape, its silhouette a silvery apparition hovering above the quiet Ugandan town of Lyantonde. Bonny sits cross-legged atop a low shoulder of the rock, his body framed by the dark hills behind him, and he traces lines of tight, blue script across the weathered pages of a notebook. As he shifts his head, murky sunlight splays across his forehead, casting his delicate profile in shadow on the pages before him.