Paula and Page: Built-In Echo
- Ann Odong
- Jul 3
- 8 min read
Season One of [un]written focuses on the rise of sportswomen with African ancestry who are Kuangazia Kesho "Illuminating tomorrow". They are the first generation of African Australians trailblazing in their fields and showing many from their communities what is possible.
The afternoon is soft and humid in Mackay. The kind of stillness that makes the world feel smaller.
Inside a modest apartment not far from the hospital, two students call out to each other across separate rooms.
It’s an easy conversation and one had across so many different student accommodations across the hall.
“What are you thinking of wearing?” Paula Malau-Aduli called out to her twin sister, Page.
“I’m not sure but I think I will go with a top and shorts,” Page answered brightly.
More conversation and more laughs follow as the twins prepare for the interview. Sitting and listening to the moment, their twinness fills the apartment like a second language: understood without translation.
This is what life looks like right now for Paula and Page Malau-Aduli. Twin sisters. Referees. Students. Two African Australian women breaking barriers.
A collection of hyphenated identities somehow stitched together through faith, football, and the fierce, unspoken comfort of sisterhood. The journey hasn’t always been on the travel most travelled. But it has always been shared.
They were born in Japan, raised in Tasmania, moved north to Townsville, and are now balancing hospital rounds with whistle drills in regional Queensland.
In a game that rarely shows love to those in black shirts, they’re not just surviving, they’re leading a new wave. Not loudly. Not even willingly. But undeniably. The first African Australian referees in the elite women’s competition – the A-League Women’s. And still, somehow, just two girls from Far North Queensland who didn’t have the “personality” for it.
Best Friends Forever
Their mother used to say it like a chant when they were little: “Best friends forever.” Not in the cheesy Instagram caption kind of way, but in the sacred, stitched-into-your-bones kind of way. It was prophetic. It still is.
“We’ve always done everything together,” Paula says. “When we were kids, it was like we were a package deal. And in some ways, it just stayed like that.”
“Everything was together, which I kind of love,” Page adds. “It's like a built-in best friend. I couldn't really imagine not doing it together.”
They were five months old when their father got a job in Australia, moving the family from Japan to Tasmania. It’s where their early childhood played out with the usual childhood of school, backyard games, the fuzzy beginnings of memory. Then came Townsville, and now Mackay. Places that mark their upbringing not by landscape, but by people.
Ask them where home is, and the answer isn’t simple.
“When I think of my childhood, I picture Tassie the most,” says Paula.
“Townsville feels like memory,” says Page.
“Nigeria feels like roots. That's also a sense of home as well, even though we've only been there once.”
They are each other's constants. But that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they get on each other's nerves. Sometimes the silence stretches until one of them laughs, and the other rolls her eyes, and they start again.
But even on the worst days, they always come back to each other.
“We definitely do have our moments where we annoy each other, upset each other, but it's kind of cool that we always come back to each other,” says Paula. “I honestly think there's only been maybe two times where we've really been mad at each other and we were apart maybe two. We missed each other too much!”
Nowhere and Everywhere
For most people, identity is a question they can answer without thinking. But for the Malau-Aduli sisters, the question “Where are you from?” lands a little differently.
Born in Japan. Raised in Australia. Parents from Nigeria.
“It’s like nowhere feels fully like home,” Paula reflects. “But also, everywhere kind of does.”
Still, it wasn’t always simple. As kids, they shape-shifted depending on context. More Nigerian at home, more Australian at school. But as they grew, they learned to blend the two.
“I think one of the best things is picking kind of different parts from each culture or setting, and like employing that in myself,” Page explained.
“I've loved kind of growing up and actually meshing the two together. That's probably been really helpful in actually figuring out my identity as well.”
Now, they carry culture like a mixtape, pulling favourite tracks from each world.
One of those tracks is laughter.
“Our laugh is definitely the most Nigerian thing about us,” Paula grins. “It’s loud. Like, Big Noise loud. Mum even called us TBN, The Big Noise, because you could hear us before you saw us.”
It is one of the most noticeable parts of Paula and Page. Their pure joy and quickness to cackle and laugh. And that laugh plays in stereo.
It’s an important trait when you consider both their football profession – refereeing - and their future profession.
Chapter Three: The Whistle is a Mirror
They didn’t set out to be referees. They just wanted to prove their brother wrong.
“Our brother probably hates it when we told this story, because we've said it that many times,” Page says, laughing. “Our brother started refereeing, and he was telling us about it.
He told us we didn’t have the personality for it. So that day we were like, ‘Dad, sign us up.’”
They were fourteen, still playing the game they’d loved since they were five. Refereeing wasn’t some calculated career move. It was a dare turned into discipline. They fell in love with it slowly, one tough game, one shouty parent, one good call at a time.
“From there, it's just been like a journey of people believing in us, which I'm so grateful for,” Page continued.
“We've had so many mentors and people who have just seen what we couldn't see in ourselves and have brought us to this point. I'm grateful to all of them. I wouldn't start listing them, because there's too many.”
But refereeing isn’t easy. Not for anyone. And not for young African-Australian women.
“There’s always a parent who thinks you’ve done the worst thing in the world to their child,” says Page. “And when you’re young, it’s hard not to take that on.”
That’s where their bond mattered most. They had each other. After games, after mistakes, after tears. One would cry, the other would listen. One would doubt, the other would steady.
“We probably take things on quite personally. So it was super helpful to have each other,” Paula recounted. “I'd be crying, and I'd say ‘Page, I don't want to do this anymore’. And she'd just understand and talk me through it say ‘It's okay, Paula. Next time we can do it this way.’
The support from each other has been so helpful and from the wider ref community as well.”
“We’re not doing the same roles,” says Page. “I’m a referee and fourth official. Paula’s an assistant referee. But we learn from each other. I’ll share something I picked up from a game, and it might not be her job, but it makes us both better.”
“I think we're in a pretty privileged position to be able to have that insight, not just into our own, lives and our own roles, but the other persons as well.”
It’s not just about officiating. It’s about growth. Emotional maturity. Learning to stand in the noise and not flinch. Learning to step into a space that wasn’t built for you and stay anyway.
“Having that person who's so close to me and understands me so much, but then also when I'm spiralling or I'm going so far down another way is so important in this role,” said Paula. “I am lucky to have someone who understands me so well but can also kind of pull me out of that and be an objective perspective that's not just me in my own head.”
They say it often. It’s the ethos of the referee, be invisible in your excellence. And if there is anything Paula and Page strive for, its excellence. However, it will never be at the expense of the enjoyment of the game that they have loved since they were in pre-school.
“I just love the sport of soccer without sounding nerdy,” Page laughed. “When you play, you know you're out there and the crowd's kind of cheering, and they want you to win or do well. We have a different setting but you’re part of the same game, and you're part of another team, the ref team.”
“You know you've done your job best when you come off the field and no one's talking about you. It just teaches you kind of that humility. That the game's not about me. I'm here to facilitate it for the players and ensure it flows to allow for an entertaining match for the crowd.
I think it's cool that you go out there and you're not trying to make it about yourself.”
It’s that soul of service that permeates through their story and its not just on the pitch but off the pitch too.
Called to Serve
They are also studying medicine. Because of course they are. Not because they want to collect accolades, but because they believe in serving others.
“It’s a privilege,” Page says. “To meet people at their hardest moments, and try, even in a small way to make things better. That’s what drives me.”
Their father’s stories from Nigeria helped shape that vision. Towns without hospitals. Places where medical access was a dream, not a right. They grew up understanding the quiet urgency of care.
“I knew I wanted to do something in healthcare,” Paula says. “When I got into medicine, I wasn’t sure I’d make it, but here we are. I still have two years to go. But it already feels like the right path.”
Their faith is woven through it all. Not as a badge, but as breath. “Jesus laid His life down for others,” says Page. “That selflessness and that’s the model. That’s what I want to live out.”
They’re not perfect. They’ll tell you that. But they are intentional. In how they show up. In how they love. In how they serve.
When you ask them about legacy, they shift uncomfortably.
“We’re not that special,” says Page. “It’s surreal, honestly. I don’t feel like we’re doing anything huge. We’re just doing our thing.”
“We're part of a group of people who are all doing amazing work out there. Sometimes it feels a little bit like I don't think we're special enough to have the spotlight on us.”
“But it's a really good opportunity, a cool opportunity, to raise awareness and start conversations and be part of a process bigger than just us. Even though sometimes when it feels a little like I don't deserve it, which I probably don't.”
But the thing is representation doesn’t ask for perfection. It just asks for presence.
When you’ve never seen yourself in a space, seeing someone who looks like you matters.
Seeing someone who sounds like you. Who wears braids like yours. Who laughs loud and studies hard and makes decisions with a whistle in hand.
“If we’d seen someone like us earlier,” Paula says quietly, “it would’ve been eye-opening. Just to know it was possible. I never really thought we would get to this point.”
So here they are now. Making the path a little clearer, a little wider, for the girls behind them.
And when it all gets too loud, when the comparisons come, when the spotlight feels like a weight, they have each other. Still side by side. Still laughing loud. Still learning.
Because this isn’t a story of arrival. This is a story of becoming.
Written by Ann Odong
Ann is a Ugandan-Australian storyteller, strategist, and advocate who has spent the past 20 years championing the voices of women in football and culturally diverse communities across the world.
The [female] athlete project is Australia's fastest growing women's sports platform, spotlighting the stories and achievements of women in sport. Listen to the weekly podcast the wrap on apple or spotify, or sign up to our weekly newsletter here.
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