The Asphalt Prophets of Kampala

I found myself standing in the dirt-packed alleys of Kampala's forgotten corners, watching a revolution unfold on four small wheels. This isn't your garden variety uprising – it's a goddamn nutritional-recreational coup d'état led by a band of wild-eyed youth with scraped knees and determined grins. The Kampala Skateboard Initiative, brainchild of the indefatigable Isaac Huston, has created a two-pronged assault on the grim realities of urban poverty: teach the kids to skate, then feed their hungry bodies.

"At KSI, we're not just about teaching kids the thrill of skateboarding, but also fueling their bodies with wholesome goodness," explains Huston, who speaks with the fervent intensity of a man who's found his cosmic purpose amid chaos.

Nutritional Warfare

The genius of KSI's approach becomes evident as I watch a woman with curly hair distributing fat, juicy watermelon slices to a circle of helmeted children. Their eyes light up with equal parts hunger and joy – a rare combination in these parts. The ground beneath them is hard-packed dirt, their backdrop a wall of towering bamboo stalks. These kids, many barefoot or wearing mismatched sandals, have just finished grinding the rough terrain on borrowed boards, and now they feast like victorious warriors.

A young Black woman in a pink hijab who had been pushing children on skateboards earlier offers her assessment: "Really loving what I'm seeing for the kids, how they are giving their life out to the skateboards. They feel—it's like the way I love my bike. It's the same way I'm seeing how they love their skateboards."

The Method Behind the Madness

This isn't some half-baked charity operation – it's a calculated strike at the heart of hopelessness. The KSI volunteers move with military precision, assembling their makeshift skateboard arena wherever space allows, deploying safety equipment, coaching terrified beginners, and then unfurling their nutritional counterpunch with trays of fresh fruit.

"Today being a weekend, there's no other day that I could have spent my day apart from being with KSI and the kids," confesses one dedicated volunteer, his eyes blazing with conviction.

The system works because it addresses multiple needs simultaneously. The kids learn balance, courage and community through skateboarding, while their growing bodies receive the fuel necessary to continue the fight. It's a beautiful symbiosis in a world where solutions typically address only one problem at a time.

A young man in a white "Skwash Club" T-shirt puts it perfectly: "It's good to come around and feel the energy. The kids always—you know—can tell how fearless they are, so that even inspires me to also be more fearless and come out."

The revolution in Kampala doesn't aim its fury at political systems or economic structures – at least not directly. Instead, it targets the insidious enemies of malnutrition and hopelessness, using skateboards and watermelons as unconventional weapons in a battle for these children's futures.

The recent guidance on "nounish meals and supply to the KSI community" has elevated the program's effectiveness. In March 2025, I witnessed a woman carrying trays of plastic-wrapped watermelon to a black car, the trunk loaded with provisions for the day's activities. "It was a pleasure to work alongside guidance on the development and implementation of the nounish meals," explained Huston, his commitment summed up in a simple phrase that speaks volumes – "Till we win." This isn't a man who dabbles in half-measures or token gestures.

The Sanctuary of Wheels

SPOTTED! That's what the social media posts declare, as if these children were rare creatures in their natural habitat rather than what they truly are – the living heartbeat of a revolutionary approach to community building. "You can catch these smiling faces at our KSI community sessions!" reads one post, accompanied by photos of children whose grins tell more truth than any manifesto could.

One girl wears a cream-colored tank top declaring "I don't care, I'm a unicorn!" – a statement of defiant joy in circumstances that might otherwise crush such whimsy. A young man stands balanced on his board, palms up in a gesture of openness that seems to embrace whatever life might throw his way next.

"Thanks to KSI's support, we're able to provide a safe space for them to grow and thrive," writes Huston. And there it is – the ultimate revolution in a society where safety is often a luxury rather than a right. KSI has created not just a program, but a sanctuary where these children can experience the radical act of simply being allowed to develop as children should.

As I leave the dust-choked streets where KSI works its magic, the image that haunts me isn't of poverty or desperation – it's of a small boy, knees scraped raw, helmet askew, devouring a slice of watermelon with the voracious joy of someone who's discovered that life, against all odds, can actually be sweet.