Before my dad got Alzheimer’s, he was really good on the stock market. Around twenty years ago, he bought some shares for my brother and me at a modest price, and they eventually made hundreds of thousands of dollars. So we both ended up with a little nest egg.
Something that’s relevant now is that I remember seeing a course in 3D modelling and special effects, and I told my dad I was interested in doing it. It cost $10,000, which was a lot of money back then, and he said he could help me out with the fees. I also remember when I was temping around town, he asked if I’d be interested in starting my own temp agency — and he could fund it.
Dad was interested in spending the money on us, sometimes even asking if we wanted to buy a townhouse or somewhere to live. My brother came up with an idea for a business — a website where people could upload their résumés, and employers could search through potential candidates. It was innovative at the time, and Dad agreed to fund my brother’s startup, which he did.
I didn’t have any ideas for how I wanted to use the money — not until I got back from Tanzania. I told both Mum and Dad that I wanted to rent a house in a town called Arusha, about 100 km from Moshi, where I’d stayed. Arusha is like the diplomatic hub of Tanzania. It was home to the United Nations Tribunal for the Rwandan Genocide, and it hosted the East African Union.
I wanted to rent a house there, deck it out, and set up my own volunteer organisation. I say ‘business’, but I didn’t want to get rich from it — I just wanted to earn enough to live and work in Tanzania and build a life with Kai.
When I told my dad that I wanted to use my little nest egg to fund this idea, he was furious. He flat-out refused. I went on and on about it, and it actually caused a bit of a rift in the family.
I remember being downstairs in the house one day when Dad came and sat next to me on the couch. He told me that if I went back to Africa, he might never speak to me again.
All I wanted was to be back in Tanzania with Kai — that’s all I wanted. I wanted to be loved. It’s nothing more complicated than that. I wanted to be loved, and nothing was going to stop me from going back.
My dad ended up giving me some of the money, and I did a few very basic things with it — like setting up an Australian company and then working with a Tanzanian lawyer to establish some sort of entity over there. But honestly, I had no idea what I was doing.
Kai had found a big house that belonged to the Police Commissioner of the region, and I took out a lease on it — without even being in Tanzania. I just sent the money over, and it was ready for me when I arrived. I had bunk beds made and furniture bought. The idea was that, once I returned, I’d find placements for international volunteers who would stay at the house. I’d hire drivers to pick them up from the airport and give them a secure, safe place to stay while they were in Tanzania.
My brother’s friend Simon — such a beautiful soul — set up a website for me, and things moved quickly.
When I arrived back in Tanzania and saw Kai, something changed instantly. I think I fell out of what I thought was love right then and there. I felt used for money. I felt like I wasn’t meant to be there, and I didn’t want to be with him anymore.
But I couldn’t go back home — not after setting up this whole business against my dad’s and mum’s wishes. I had a lease on a massive house and I suddenly found myself in a bit of a situation.
Kai had found a driver for us — Baraka — who was lovely, so I gave him a job driving us around each day. I also employed a couple of house girls, all of whom lived in the house.
One of the girls, Jean, was from the vocational training centre where I’d volunteered. She was the one who’d been asked to take her burqa off, and then made fun of by the teacher. I tracked her down. She was working in a hospitality job in Moshi, and I got Kai to go and ask if she wanted to come and work for me. I told her that if the business didn’t work out, I’d help her get another job.
So there we were: three girls, Kai, Baraka, two Maasai guards, and me. Kai had set up a room for us with a double bed, but I went and slept in one of the bunks. I made it very clear that I didn’t want a relationship with him. He could keep working for me, but that was all.
I was determined to make it work.
I was in this awkward, uncomfortable situation with Kai, my parents didn’t support me being there, but I had a full complement of staff — and I needed to get to work.
The first thing I decided to do was get the front gates of the house painted with African animals. I got permission from the owner and found a young artist who did a wonderful job.
I didn’t take many photos — in fact, I pretty much didn't take any at all — but these are the few that I do have. Below, you can see the paintings on the gates of the volunteer house.
When I was having the curtains and cushions made, I took the fabric to a local tailor in town. He was a young man, and I paid him for the job before he’d finished. Later, he called and told me they were ready to be picked up — but when I collected them, I saw that the curtains hadn’t been done. I’d paid him, but he hadn’t completed the work.
I asked Baraka, the driver, to speak to him and find out what was going on. The tailor told Baraka that he wasn’t going to finish the job. When Baraka asked for the money back, the tailor refused. They argued for quite a while, until Baraka told me he’d take me to see his friend — a detective named Kijanda — at the police station in town.
The station was in the centre of town, and it was a hive of people. Baraka had already called Kijanda, but we had to wait to see him. When I finally met him, I was instantly attracted to him. He was tall and very masculine — he carried himself like he was the man in charge, and honestly, he was. I remember he was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, and there was just something about him that commanded attention.
Baraka introduced us, and I could tell the attraction was mutual. That was unusual for me — no one is ever attracted to me — but Kijanda was, and we had an instant connection.
Baraka explained the situation, and Kijanda agreed to come with us to speak to the tailor. He got into Baraka’s car and we drove back. When we arrived, Kijanda got out and spoke sternly to the tailor — but even then, the tailor wouldn’t return the money. I told Kijanda not to worry about it, and we eventually left.
I was surprised the tailor didn’t respond to Kijanda, because he was quite intimidating. And honestly, I never understood what the tailor’s problem was — if he didn’t want to return the money, why not just finish the job?
We drove Kijanda back to the station, and before we left, he asked for my number. I gave it to him, and Baraka and I went home.
Not long after we got back, I got a call from Kijanda — he told me he’d gone back to the tailor and had put him in jail.
The first thing I said was that it was very important to me that the tailor be released immediately. Kijanda said he’d make sure of it. I asked Baraka to take me back to the station to make sure the tailor was no longer in custody.
I know it might sound strange, but those places are hell on earth — and I can’t describe how it felt knowing someone was in there because of me. When we got back to the station, Kijanda assured me the tailor had been released.
That night, I stayed at the station with Kijanda, and Baraka went home. That became a bit of a routine. I’d order pizzas for the officers, hang out at the station with Kijanda until late, and then he’d drive me home.
Something very unusual about Kijanda was that his father had worked in the same profession as my dad — which meant he understood a lot about what that life was like. Not that it was bad, just… unique. It created a strange sense of familiarity between us.
We didn’t get together straight away. He opened up to me about his life, and I remember one night when he told me he was the one who’d commanded the officers to kill thirteen bank robbers from Kenya. I asked why they weren’t afforded a trial, and he told me that’s just the way things were done over there. That was hard for me to process.
During the day, I worked on the volunteer business. But in the evenings, I was always with Kijanda. We’d drive around Arusha together, and I’d ask him questions — sometimes difficult ones. I remember talking to him about the arrests of homosexuals, who could face up to 30 years in prison just for loving someone of the same sex. I spent a long time explaining why that was so wrong, and eventually, he promised me he wouldn’t arrest anyone else for that. It’s a promise I believe he kept.
Eventually, we did end up together romantically — and it was full-on. We were everywhere: the volunteer house, his house, the car — it was intense. I really liked him. More than I ever liked Kai.
Eventually, I moved out of the volunteer house and into a set of modest apartments. They were relatively cheap, and moving there meant Kijanda and I could be together at night without the strange tension of having Kai around. He’d often stay with me at the apartments, though his work as a detective meant he was out of town a lot.
I remember being afraid something might happen to him. His job was dangerous. He was out chasing armed criminals, investigating serious crimes — and I never quite knew where he was or what might be waiting for him.
As far as the volunteer business went, we had a website up and running and were ready to take bookings. I had a phone, and people did call — but it was awful. Now that I’ve been through it, I can really empathise with anyone starting a new business.
People would ask how many volunteers would be there when they arrived, or how long I’d been in operation. And I’d cringe every time I tried to explain. If I were doing it now, I’d just be upfront and say, “Listen, I’m just starting out. I’ve been a volunteer myself, and now I’m putting everything I’ve got into building this.” But back then, I couldn’t say it. I was nervous. I didn’t know how to sell myself, or the dream I was trying to bring to life.
In the end, nothing really happened with it. I had some people booked in, but I was so afraid of them arriving and finding no one else there. The house was quiet. Empty.
There were the three girls, the two Maasai guards, Baraka, Kai — and me. And it felt like time was just frozen. We weren’t doing anything. I didn’t know what to do.
I was definitely in over my head. And I’d spent a lot of money. I don’t even think I had the right paperwork to be legally running a business there.
Baraka once told me he knew a witchdoctor. He said that witchdoctors could make you fly by applying a special paste just above your eyebrows. At first, I was fascinated — I thought I wanted to try it. So I asked Baraka to contact the witchdoctor and find out how much he would charge to make me fly. They settled on a price, and I agreed.
But then I was speaking to someone else about it, and they told me that the paste used above the eyebrows was made from the bones of albino Tanzanians.
That made my blood run cold.
I’d heard that albino Tanzanians — often referred to as Wazungu — were hunted and killed for their body parts. I just hadn’t realised that this was one of the reasons why. As soon as I understood, I told Baraka he had to let the witchdoctor know I no longer wanted to go through with it.
Baraka passed on the message — but the witchdoctor wasn’t happy. He asked Baraka for my mother’s name and date of birth. According to Baraka, he placed a curse on me.
When I heard that, I was terrified. I rang Kijanda straight away and asked him to take me to the local Catholic church. I wanted to see a priest.
He drove me to the parish — it was a modest church with simple accommodation. That’s where I met Father Munishi. I asked him if I could live there, and he did say yes. But after spending a little time inside, surrounded by iconography of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, I realised I might be even more frightened there. So I didn’t move in, but I began visiting him every day.
Whenever I was with Kijanda, I’d ask him to take me to the church. Father Munishi and I had long conversations about Jesus and life in general. I bought some rosary beads and wore them every day. Being near him made me feel safe — like the curse couldn’t touch me while I was there.
But the nightmares came anyway. I had terrible dreams of the witchdoctor laughing at me.
Looking back on my life since then, I sometimes wonder if the curse actually worked — though I don’t really believe that. Still, it’s a thought that’s hard to shake.
One thing I still find disturbing is the reality of albino Tanzanians. In an all-Black country, shockingly white people — foreigners like me — often carry a certain level of personal power or privilege. But albino Tanzanians, whose whiteness is biological rather than political, are stripped of power and forced to live in hiding.
It’s a brutal kind of paradox — and one that I’ve never forgotten.
While all of this was going on, I developed a good relationship with my hairdresser, Nadi. I went to her a couple of times a week for blow-dries — mostly because the water at the house would run out too quickly to properly wash my hair.
I made a few friends in the neighbourhood, and I gave quite a bit of money to people who didn’t have much. I spoke to my parents regularly and told them everything was going well — but I don’t think they believed me.
While my brother was overseas, he contacted me and said he wanted to come and visit. I knew they were sending him. They probably paid for his ticket.
When he arrived and came to the house, he saw there were no volunteers — nothing was happening. I didn’t realise how much he’d laughed at me until years later, when I bumped into some of his friends on Rundle Street. They were drunk and giggling, and they told me that my parents and brother had believed I was running some thriving, successful business in Tanzania — until my brother got there and saw it for what it was.
They thought it was funny. I took it to heart.
While my brother was in Tanzania, we hired a car and took a trip to the Serengeti with Kijanda, Nadi, and a few others I can’t quite remember now. We did a DIY safari, and it was actually good. I remember one day, my brother and I left everyone at the hotel and went for a drive. We saw some lions in the distance, and he got out of the car — he started dancing around, running laps, trying to get their attention. It was reckless but so like him.
He gave me some advice on how to get the business up and running, but I knew he already thought it was a failure — and he was right. Not long after he left, I got a call from my parents. They told me I had to shut it down.
I was really upset, but I knew they were right.
Dad tried to make me feel better. He said he’d lost money on investments before too, and that I needed to cut my losses and come home. I told myself I’d go home, get a job, and somehow keep the house going remotely — that volunteers could still stay there even if I wasn’t in Tanzania. I tried to make it make sense.
I began to settle everything. Right before I left, Kijanda and I had a huge fight. He refused to come and see me off. I remember being on the phone to him, crying — begging him to come say goodbye. But he wouldn’t.
Kai and I were still on good terms, and I kept in contact with him after I got home. I went back to temping and tried to keep paying everyone a wage, but I couldn’t afford it. Eventually, I had to ask Kai to shut everything down.
After the business was wound up, some of the girls I’d employed as housegirls started saying awful things about me. Jean had stolen a lot of money, and she even got her brother to hack into my email. I don’t know why they did it. In the end, when the money’s gone — it’s gone.
For a long time, I’ve felt like my life has been defined by that absolute shit show in Tanzania.
I had two relationships, I tried to start a business, and I lost a lot of money.
I know that if I were embarking on all of it now, I’d do things very differently.
First of all — Kai was just after money. I don’t blame him — he had nothing. But I was completely blinded by lust. He was physically beautiful, exotic, and I mistook that intensity for something deeper.
With Kijanda, it was different. I really liked him. I felt safe with him. We were from such different worlds, but he was open to learning about mine, and I was open to learning about his.
The business? That was probably the worst thing I’ve ever done. Sometimes when I meet people, I feel like I should tell them, “I did this. I made this huge mistake. I’m incompetent.” That’s what it felt like for years.
But I’m a little bit more gentle with myself now.
If I were to ever start something again, I’d start small. Microscopic. I’d build slowly. I wouldn’t pour so much money into it right away. But the truth is — I would never go into business again. Not because I’m bitter, but because I know myself now.
I’m going to work for myself when I finish my degree — but I won’t run a business. I honestly have no idea what I’m doing. And neither did my brother, really. His business failed too. Between the two of us, my parents lost a small fortune.
Kijanda died.
Years after I came home, my now-best friend Maiki rang to tell me he’d been shot during a drug bust. I spent hours online afterwards, googling him. I found photos from his funeral — and even one of him, dead. It was awful.
I think about my time in Tanzania often. I went on safari a couple of times. I visited Zanzibar and Dar es Salaam. I feel like I know the country well. But there was so much more good I could have done there. I could’ve made a greater impact if I’d just gone back as a volunteer.
I gave a lot of money — huge amounts — to individual people. That’s the temptation, I guess, when you’ve got money and you’re aching to do something meaningful. But I know why I wanted to be there so badly. I just wanted to be loved.
That’s it. That’s all I’ve ever wanted — to be truly, deeply loved. And I literally did anything to feel that. I nearly lost my parents. I nearly lost my own self-respect — all for the chance at being someone’s first choice.
It probably sounds made up, but it’s the truth: I’ve never really been loved. Not properly. My parents did, in their way — but they always had other priorities. Nanny loved me, but I think she resented me more than anything else.
I just wanted to be loved. And now I ask myself: Was that it? Was that my one and only chance?
I’m middle-aged now. And I’ve never been someone’s number one priority.
When my dad got Alzheimer’s, he was still trading on the stock exchange — and he lost all his money, and my mother’s too.
Now, my mum doesn’t even own a house. We’re renting my brother’s.
But I think you have to keep a sense of humour about these things — if that’s even possible. It’s only money, after all. And I know I had to go all the way to Tanzania to unsuccessfully find it — but I also know that love is worth so much more.
