Zanzi Guy #1
“Rez.. does he even speak English? Like, a local guy from Tanzania?” “What? Yes, of course he does.”
Sure, my friends had their concerns—totally understandable. But I didn’t just fall for any barefoot beach boy. I fell for the self-proclaimed Prince of Kendwa (title still pending, of course).
It wouldn’t be a true Rez ending to this chapter of my life—wrapping up my sabbatical and heading back to Berlin—if I didn’t fall for someone just five days before leaving this paradise of an island, Zanzibar.
It was my second time in Zanzibar, and I just wanted to end my trip somewhere easy. After months of running around East and South Africa, all I needed was great weather, a beautiful blue ocean, and maybe a little dance. Zanzibar was perfect—small, simple, and basically the Muslim Ibiza. My first time there had been so much fun that it only made sense to finish my trip in the same way.
I met up with a friend from Stone Town, and we drove down to Paje, lounging on beach beds in front of the crystal blue ocean. As I started feeling the weight of heading back to real life, my friend was set on making sure my trip ended on a high note. “I’ve got some friends up north—local Kendwa guys, really nice. Want to meet them?” he offered. “Are they hot?” I joked, not looking for anything serious, just some fun before I left. Little did I know, that’s when the madness began.
Fast forward a couple of days, and I’m hanging out with the Kendwa boys, just before the island's biggest event—the full moon party. By now, I’d been partying, meeting new people, and bumping into familiar faces from my last trip, all while updating my group chats, living my most chaotic best life.
One afternoon, after a long day of swimming and lounging at the beach, I met up with one of the boys who introduced me to his best friend for the first time. We exchanged hellos, and I was immediately caught off guard. You know those movie moments when two people shake hands and hold that stare just a second too long?
Well, he was cute—dark hair, dark eyes, and a great smile, with a charmingly weird accent that screamed international school kid.
He casually said, “Yeah, this place is mine,” gesturing to the hotel bar we were at. I smiled, knowing it was really his dad’s business.
He started sharing stories about his time in Berlin, even mentioning KitKat, and I thought, "Wow, this African guy is surprisingly open-minded." It was such a refreshing change, especially on this Muslim island where things are usually more conservative, despite the drinking and partying scene. We exchanged Instagrams, and he asked if I could help him find a chef. I casually replied, "Sure, why not?" and left it at that.
Honestly, I didn't think much of it. The island is packed with gorgeous guys and stunning women, like I said, it's basically the Muslim Ibiza. We move.
Later that day, I messaged the girls in our group chat: "I've messed up. but I can’t do anything since I've been chatting to one of his friends. I guess I'll just have to admire him from afar?" But as fate would have it, my feelings for his friend faded. We just didn’t click—he was a lot, but not in a way that appealed to me. Still, I decided I wouldn’t make a move on Zanzi Guy unless he did first.
By now, I was fully immersed in island life, spending time with the cousins and girls from the group. They were lovely, and we bonded over mainly boy stories as the days went by. When the full moon party arrived, we were all in VIP, dancing on the top floor of the beach bar because that’s how they get the dudes to spend money I guess. I was having a laugh and dancing with the girls, catching glimpses of the Zanzi Guy whilst thinking nope I cannot go there. No girl, don’t do it.
Out of nowhere, he strolled over, a stemless glass of champagne in hand—apparently, he’d accidentally broken the stem—and offered it to me. I couldn’t help but tease him about his clumsiness, and we had a little dance. But then, just as suddenly, the music cut out, leaving us in an awkward silence. He shrugged, laughed, and said, “Well, that’s not my problem anymore,” and we ran downstairs.
Down by the beach, we found a secluded spot where the distant sounds of the party faded into background music for our first proper conversation. The quiet felt surreal after all the chaos. A little tipsy, he began to ramble, his words spilling out as he apologised for asking me to help him find a chef. I laughed it off, “Don’t worry about it.” Then, out of the blue, he leaned in closer and asked, “What do you want out of life—or a relationship?
I told him I was looking for something real, that I was tired of the in-betweens. He agreed, saying he was done with first dates too. It felt like we were on the same page, both of us exhausted by shallow connections and craving something deeper.
He began sharing all his flaws and baggage, almost as if by laying it all out from the beginning, I’d be more willing to accept it—as if being upfront about it would somehow make it easier to overlook and digest.
"Do you want to go for a swim?" he asked. I said yes, and we ran towards the sea. The water felt amazing, a perfect contrast to the warm night air, and although it was still dark outside around 5am, we swam out to a random boat about 25 metres offshore. Climbing aboard just as the sun began to rise. We couldn’t stop laughing and we were carefree yet there was an underscored seriousness in our conversation. Then, as the sun came up, we kissed.
Sitting on the boat, he suggested breakfast, wanting to impress me with a local spot. By now, he knew that while I appreciated the finer things, I was really after an authentic experience. We swam back to shore, and he drove us to the breakfast place, but it wasn’t open yet. So, we ended up at another beachfront café. They didn’t have food either, but they did have champagne and coffee, so naturally, we ordered both—because why not at 7am? We exchanged numbers. He saved himself as Zanzi Guy #1, very fitting and honestly a red flag but what’s a girl to do, and I became That Pengting Called Rez.
I was delirious, caught between exhaustion and exhilaration. It felt like we’d known each other for years. We held hands, took pictures, and just let ourselves be silly. Instead of counting the days we had together, we found ourselves counting the hours.
On our eighteenth hour together, we were at a yacht party with the artists from the full moon party. I pulled out a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The artists were belting out their tunes, people were dancing, and we kept stealing cheeky glances at each other as the sun dipped down. It felt just like a scene out of a film, you know?
Later that night, we went to Cocobello, the club everyone goes to for its wild, almost African Magic Mike–style shows. Amid the chaos, we found ourselves in deep conversation—debating, laughing, and challenging each other’s ideas. It was one of those movie moments where everything around us blurred, speeding by, while we remained frozen in time. I wasn’t used to feeling so deeply seen, but with him, the connection was undeniable.
Our first real date was at SeVi, a stunning restaurant by the ocean, about an hour from where we were staying on the island's east side. As we sat there watching the moonrise—my first at 29—I was struck by the simplicity of the moment. He had even booked a place for us next door, and that night, we battled mosquitoes and the heat, talking until the early hours. I found myself wondering, could I really see myself with this guy?
We rode back on his motorbike down the green lush streets of Zanzibar, but, of course, no story of mine is ever that simple. Another girl was involved, complicating everything and pulling me out of my holiday romance bubble. I started questioning it all, wondering if I should just snap out of it and treat it like a fling. Yet, we talked it through, and somehow he made me feel more secure. Still, I was a wreck, just a day away from leaving with feelings for someone who lived over 5,000 miles away.
By our one hundred and tenth hour together, I felt a growing unease. He had asked me to come see him in Stone Town before I left for Berlin, but I hesitated. Should I really spend my final hours on this beautiful island with him? I confided in his girl best friend, who reassured me that he genuinely liked me and how she encouraged him to speak to me at the full moon party when he was scared to. So, I decided to go.
When I arrived, he had set the table, ordered takeaway since the restaurants were closed, and pulled out a bottle of champagne. In just five days, we’d shared five bottles together and neither of us even like champagne, it just became a thing. To my surprise, he had even tracked down the stemless glass from the first night we met—the one I thought was lost (it’s now with me in Berlin.) Apparently, he had his driver search for it.
He drove me to the airport, and as we said our goodbyes, I felt a wave of emotion wash over me. I cried for most of the trip back—I'm not really a crier, but I couldn’t help it. I was heartbroken, not just because of him, but also because it marked the end of my 18 weeks away, a time filled with so much bliss.
As time passed, everything began to shift. Our communication dwindled, and I started to confront a difficult truth: maybe it really had just been a holiday fling. My feelings had become tangled in the mix, and I couldn’t shake the nagging thought that if he truly wanted to talk to me, he would. It was one of those classic scenarios, you know? I found myself clinging to the memories of Zanzibar—the idyllic island, the perfect weather, and that intoxicating sense that everything was just right. But back in Berlin, that magic felt like a distant dream.
Months went by, and after much back and forth in my mind, I finally worked up the courage to reach out again a few weeks before he was set to come to Europe. I replayed those five days in my head, hoping the spark we had would still be there. But honestly? It wasn’t.
When we finally met again, I caught glimpses of the guy I had initially fallen for, but the excitement just wasn’t there. He had stood me up, made no real plans this time, and showed up hungover and dishevelled. He really wasn’t treating me the way I deserved. I wanted to move past it, but I couldn’t shake the disappointment. After months of anticipation, I knew I deserved better. What was supposed to feel special ended up feeling more like an afterthought.
And to be 100% real with myself, the signs were always there.
I decided to cut things off. I offered him my space, but he chose to stay elsewhere, hoping he might finally step up now that we were in the same city for a few days. But nothing changed—he was simply out of his depth. In hindsight, I’m grateful for that second meeting. If I hadn’t seen him again, I would have been left idealising those perfect five days, romanticising a version of him that didn’t truly reflect my reality.
It was disheartening, and I found myself talking about it with my therapist. The truth is, the Zanzi guy represented more than just a person to me—he symbolised the life I craved, an escape from the isolation and dissatisfaction that seemed to weigh down my everyday existence in Berlin.
Okay, okay, maybe I’m being a bit dramatic. Ironically, my life in Berlin is actually great; there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. Yet, before I left, I felt this profound unhappiness, fueled by so many different factors.
The end of my sabbatical wasn’t merely about leaving him or the island behind; it marked a forced return to a life that felt cold and lonely. I missed my people, so much. The stark contrast between the freedom and vibrancy of the island and the dreariness of my life back home was jarring.
In reality, could I even live on an island like Zanzibar long-term? Probably not, unless it were under privileged circumstances—consistent electricity, proper running water, and air conditioning because let’s be honest, the heat can be unbearable. Simple things like supermarkets just aren’t readily available there. The island experiences frequent power cuts, and that lifestyle would eventually wear on me. I had all those comforts available in Berlin and so much more, and while the allure of island life was undeniable, I had to confront the practicality of it all.
The dream of living in paradise often glosses over the harsh realities.
My feelings about clinging to the island life, the romance, and the allure of something different made perfect sense. It wasn’t just about Zanzi guy as an individual; he embodied the life I craved and I think many of us do. The thought of returning to a reality that didn’t fulfil me felt unbearable, and the possibility of change—no matter how spontaneous or irrational—seemed like a lifeline.
When you’re unhappy, it’s all too easy to romanticise another life or person as the key to your happiness. Zanzi guy and the island became symbols of everything I believed I was missing: warmth, connection, excitement, and an escape from the monotony of everyday life. Do I think a beach could fix everything? Honestly I don’t know.
Thankfully, I managed to work through those post-holiday blues, and I’m now in a much better place. I’m still glad I met him; I genuinely liked him. But here we are, it’s just another story.
The track I’ll leave you with today is Mental Ecstasy by Brandon Benjamin.
Love,
Rez x