#KampalaPhotoWalk by SeboAnush

Gideon is truly a master of his craft. He volunteered to model for our photowalk, striking poses that turned ordinary corners into living art. But the real money shot came when he launched into this move—right in the middle of bustling Kampala Road—balancing grace, strength, and fearless rhythm.

Amid the chaos of traffic and chatter, his movement felt like poetry in motion, a brief rebellion against gravity and routine. Watching him, I couldn’t help but smile and think—how I wish my body could speak that freely, even for a moment.

I’m genuinely grateful to Muwado, Unpublished Africa, and Badru for bringing this initiative to life. It was a day defined by creativity, curiosity, and the quiet hope that something meaningful could unfold. Seeing a bunch of passionate individuals come together, each eager to explore, capture, and share, was inspiring.

It sparks a deeper desire—to form our own mini-groups, to create spaces where ideas flow freely, where Kampala and its people, along with the wider tapestry of Uganda, can be celebrated and showcased. There’s a quiet beauty in collective ambition: the thrill of collaboration, the humility in learning from one another, and the gratitude for those who take the first step in lighting the spark.

- seboanush

This photograph speaks in contrasts—light and shadow, youth and age, beginnings and conclusions. The old man climbs the stairs barefoot, carrying the weight of years and unspoken memories. The child, in a torn top, leans curiously over the railing, watching Badru photograph mirrors on the street—perhaps seeing herself reflected in fragments she cannot yet understand.

What were this man’s dreams when he was young? Did he reach them, or did life shape them into something quieter? What hopes stir within this child, and what trials await her?

And you—what are your dreams? Are you climbing toward them with purpose, or pausing, distracted by reflections along the way?

This photograph holds a special place in my heart. Growing up in India, piracy was part of our informal economy of dreams. I remember saving my weekly pocket money—100 rupees in 2012—to buy pirated video games from a small shop down the lane. The DVDs, wrapped in glossy prints of heroes and worlds I longed to enter, felt like treasures. I’d tuck them under my shirt and sneak them home, heart racing, afraid yet thrilled.

Here in Kampala, seeing these familiar displays feels like meeting an echo from my past. The posters shimmer with aspiration—proof that stories travel farther than legality ever can.

And though I no longer condone piracy, I can’t help but smile at its innocent origins: a universal hunger to belong to worlds beyond our reach.

Two men, one rain, two very different journeys.

One rides through the storm—helmet strapped, rain jacket zipped, cycling shoes slicing through puddles. The other walks barefoot, wrapped in a thin plastic sheet, every drop of rain clinging to him like circumstance itself. Both are drenched, both moving forward—but the difference lies not in their will, only in the fortune of the families they were born into.

The rain, indifferent and honest, touches both alike. Yet it reveals the quiet inequality of our shared world—how privilege shelters some, while others must make peace with the storm.

While waiting for everyone to gather for the photowalk, my eyes caught Hannah’s effortless drip. Even before she spoke, her style told a story—bold, playful, unapologetically her. As a boda zipped past, she stood grounded yet radiant: red hair blazing against the city’s muted tones, green-and-black high socks climbing like stripes of confidence, and golden Crocs glinting with quiet rebellion.

It was more than fashion—it was expression. In that moment, I saw creativity walking before me, not trying to fit in, but simply being. Kampala, like Hannah, carries its color in attitude.

There’s something deeply calming about the symmetry of buildings when viewed from below—the way their lines converge toward the sky, making them feel larger than life. I’ve always admired architecture for this reason: it’s art that you can walk inside, ambition cast in concrete and glass.

Kampala’s skyline is slowly changing—each new high-rise standing as a quiet declaration of progress, confidence, and vision. Looking up, I can’t help but feel a sense of optimism. These towers are not just structures; they are dreams reaching upward, reminding us that growth, like architecture, begins from the ground but aspires endlessly skyward.

As humans, we instinctively compare—places, people, moments—all through the lens of where we’ve been. Wandering through Kampala, one thing that caught my eye was the mannequins. Their shapes, curves, and postures felt so different from those I grew up seeing in India. These figures seemed to celebrate form, not hide it—bold, confident, unapologetically sculpted.

It made me smile, thinking of Jason Derulo’s lyric: “How do you fit all that in them jeans?” Perhaps these silent sentinels are more than display figures—they reflect the local rhythm of beauty, pride, and identity, each one standing tall in its own quiet confidence.

Every time I pass a hawker on the streets, a thought lingers: how much do they earn in a day, and does it suffice for their needs? What strategies do traders employ when their stock does not sell as anticipated? These questions are more than idle curiosity—they are windows into the fragile ecosystem of informal commerce.

A closer look at Kampala’s streets reveals a fascinating pattern: clusters of hawkers often converge around a single type of product—medicines along Wilson Road, IT accessories on Kampala Road. It seems that in such a saturated market, the true differentiator is not the merchandise itself, but the ability to capture a passerby’s attention. The skill of standing out amidst uniformity becomes an art form, a silent negotiation between visibility, appeal, and survival. Observing this, one begins to appreciate the subtle strategies at play in urban commerce—where economics, psychology, and human behavior intersect in plain sight.

The sign reads, “No Boda-bodas Permitted”—a noble attempt at urban order, a monument to traffic management, a silent promise of control. And yet, in the very frame, a lone boda-boda glides past, oblivious to bureaucratic decree. The irony is almost poetic: no matter how meticulously the city sketches its lines and posts its signs, the boda-bodas seem to follow a different set of rules, written by the pulse of the streets themselves.

As my friend wryly observes, riding a boda through thick traffic is sheer exhilaration; witnessing one overtake you in your car, slightly terrifying. The city’s attempt at discipline collides with human ingenuity, and in that collision, one sees the beautiful absurdity of urban life—the eternal dance of law, defiance, and the rhythm of movement that no sign can truly command. Something close to what I experience back home.