| Founder’s Story — Ubuntu Kids I remember New Year’s Eve of 2023 in Zanzibar. Through a small window of a cluttered office, I watched locals celebrating, laughing, and tourists walking around in Santa hats. Outside — joy and light. Inside — a storeroom with menus, printers, and my bed laid out on the floor. I spent ten nights there while waiting for new housing. I could have given up, gone back to tourism where my old colleagues were calling me. But inside, I told myself: "No. I’ll prove I can." That’s how my journey began. Life led me to the home of the Alkanan family. It was there, for the first time in Zanzibar, that I truly felt Ubuntu: if someone had food, the very first thing they did was offer you a plate and say "karibu" — "please, you’re welcome." Nobody started eating alone. There, I saw how having many children was not a burden but a strength: children are the family’s future foundation. One child rises — and pulls the whole family up. They gave me shelter without asking for anything. A roof, food, and the understanding that there are no "other people’s" children. |
| Founder’s Story — Ubuntu Kids I remember New Year’s Eve of 2023 in Zanzibar. Through a small window of a cluttered office, I watched locals celebrating, laughing, and tourists walking around in Santa hats. Outside — joy and light. Inside — a storeroom with menus, printers, and my bed laid out on the floor. I spent ten nights there while waiting for new housing. I could have given up, gone back to tourism where my old colleagues were calling me. But inside, I told myself: "No. I’ll prove I can." That’s how my journey began. Life led me to the home of the Alkanan family. It was there, for the first time in Zanzibar, that I truly felt Ubuntu: if someone had food, the very first thing they did was offer you a plate and say "karibu" — "please, you’re welcome." Nobody started eating alone. There, I saw how having many children was not a burden but a strength: children are the family’s future foundation. One child rises — and pulls the whole family up. They gave me shelter without asking for anything. A roof, food, and the understanding that there are no "other people’s" children. |
That’s where I began to shoot. At first, only on my iPhone — for a whole summer I filmed vlogs and reels just for myself, searching for my vision. A French woman, Domi, saw those reels and invited me to film in her yoga studio, Uzima Space. That’s how my path began as "Tony who makes reels."
Then came Charlie, who gifted me a Nikon. But only two months later I had a moped accident and broke the camera. I kept filming on my phone — and word of mouth worked: people hired me for my vision, not my gear.
For a whole year I lived like that, filming on an iPhone. Then Yulia, a friend I had worked with, left for Russia and handed me her Sony: "Shoot, Antoha, become a real videographer." But a couple of months later, everything was stolen — camera, phone, money. The only thing they didn’t steal was my willpower. I bought a simple iPhone 13 and kept going.
For a whole year I lived like that, filming on an iPhone. Then Yulia, a friend I had worked with, left for Russia and handed me her Sony: "Shoot, Antoha, become a real videographer." But a couple of months later, everything was stolen — camera, phone, money. The only thing they didn’t steal was my willpower. I bought a simple iPhone 13 and kept going.
With that phone I filmed for NGO Wajamama. There I saw how a hybrid of commercial and social could work: maternity health for women, and at the same time community support. I was deeply inspired by Nafisa, the head of Wajamama, who carried her idea with love and grace. That’s when I realized how values can merge with a sustainable model.
Later came Maulid. I asked to rent his camera. But when, three months later, I returned it and offered to pay, he refused. He said: "Let it keep helping you." Thanks to that and my work, I saved up for my own camera. For the last six months I was already shooting on it, taking on better projects, affording better housing.
That’s how I became part of the island.
Later came Maulid. I asked to rent his camera. But when, three months later, I returned it and offered to pay, he refused. He said: "Let it keep helping you." Thanks to that and my work, I saved up for my own camera. For the last six months I was already shooting on it, taking on better projects, affording better housing.
That’s how I became part of the island.
With that phone I filmed for NGO Wajamama. There I saw how a hybrid of commercial and social could work: maternity health for women, and at the same time community support. I was deeply inspired by Nafisa, the head of Wajamama, who carried her idea with love and grace. That’s when I realized how values can merge with a sustainable model.
Later came Maulid. I asked to rent his camera. But when, three months later, I returned it and offered to pay, he refused. He said: "Let it keep helping you." Thanks to that and my work, I saved up for my own camera. For the last six months I was already shooting on it, taking on better projects, affording better housing.
That’s how I became part of the island.
Later came Maulid. I asked to rent his camera. But when, three months later, I returned it and offered to pay, he refused. He said: "Let it keep helping you." Thanks to that and my work, I saved up for my own camera. For the last six months I was already shooting on it, taking on better projects, affording better housing.
That’s how I became part of the island.
| But the real change came through children. Farukh, a boy with huge bright eyes, took a camera from me for the first time. He jumped with joy every time something worked out. And I understood: photography is not about equipment. It’s about a child seeing that his perspective matters. That he can show his world — and that is his strength. That’s how the idea of the club was born. I went to Dar es Salaam, bought ten digital cameras, and gathered children in a yard. Twice as many came as I expected. We learned how to hold the frame, align the horizon, and see. The next day I stayed up all night printing photos at Robin Batista’s lab and put on an exhibition: posters, strings, A4 photos and little 10×10 prints — my series Oceanpack, Stonepack, Shambapack. People came, bought, donated, some brought old cameras. For me, it was both fundraising and farewell to the island: I planted a seed that will keep growing. |
| But the real change came through children. Farukh, a boy with huge bright eyes, took a camera from me for the first time. He jumped with joy every time something worked out. And I understood: photography is not about equipment. It’s about a child seeing that his perspective matters. That he can show his world — and that is his strength. That’s how the idea of the club was born. I went to Dar es Salaam, bought ten digital cameras, and gathered children in a yard. Twice as many came as I expected. We learned how to hold the frame, align the horizon, and see. The next day I stayed up all night printing photos at Robin Batista’s lab and put on an exhibition: posters, strings, A4 photos and little 10×10 prints — my series Oceanpack, Stonepack, Shambapack. People came, bought, donated, some brought old cameras. For me, it was both fundraising and farewell to the island: I planted a seed that will keep growing. |
Later I found myself in Dubai
Here I realized: I don’t just want to leave behind photographs, but create spaces where children can discover themselves. I chose the path of real estate — because I knew that to grow clubs, I needed resources. Here, I can scale, earn, build, and at the same time give back. This became my ikigai: combining what I love, what I’m good at, and what the world needs.
Photography, for me, is not about cameras and lights. It's about helping every child realize: their vision is unique, their story is important, and the sun inside them must shine bright.
Photography, for me, is not about cameras and lights. It's about helping every child realize: their vision is unique, their story is important, and the sun inside them must shine bright.
Later I found myself in Dubai
Here I realized: I don’t just want to leave behind photographs, but create spaces where children can discover themselves. I chose the path of real estate — because I knew that to grow clubs, I needed resources. Here, I can scale, earn, build, and at the same time give back. This became my ikigai: combining what I love, what I’m good at, and what the world needs.
Photography, for me, is not about cameras and lights. It's about helping every child realize: their vision is unique, their story is important, and the sun inside them must shine bright.
Photography, for me, is not about cameras and lights. It's about helping every child realize: their vision is unique, their story is important, and the sun inside them must shine bright.
I grew thanks to people who believed in me. Charlie gave me a Nikon. Yulia left me a Sony. Maulid shared his Canon. Domi invited me into Uzima Space. Nafisa and Wajamama showed me how business and mission can be one.
Each of them, through their trust and kindness, helped me stand on my feet.
Today I want to do the same — but on a scale that will never end. Ubuntu Kids is my way of giving back to the world what it once gave me: belief in my vision. And giving children the chance to feel their own vision and uniqueness — through photography.
I grew thanks to people who believed in me. Charlie gave me a Nikon. Yulia left me a Sony. Maulid shared his Canon. Domi invited me into Uzima Space. Nafisa and Wajamama showed me how business and mission can be one.
Each of them, through their trust and kindness, helped me stand on my feet.
Today I want to do the same — but on a scale that will never end. Ubuntu Kids is my way of giving back to the world what it once gave me: belief in my vision. And giving children the chance to feel their own vision and uniqueness — through photography.
