An OFW’s Hard-Earned Savings at Risk: Inside the Alleged Investment Scam Exposed in a Barangay Hearing

The dream of every overseas Filipino worker is simple: work far away, endure the loneliness, and save enough money to give their family a life free from struggle. For Dexter, a Brunei-based OFW, that dream now hangs on a thin thread after he reported losing more than ₱1.1 million to a lending scheme he once believed would be his ticket home.

During a confrontation witnessed by local authorities, Dexter revealed how a Facebook connection turned into a financial nightmare. What began as a friendly “add friend” request soon evolved into business conversations, and eventually, promises of lucrative returns. The woman involved, identified as Joan La Condazo, reportedly presented herself as a restaurant manager on a cruise line, hardworking, widowed, and even doing nanny work on her days off to earn extra income. The image was convincing — respectable, relatable, and trustworthy.

According to Dexter, Joan initially impressed him with posts about reselling gold and managing a lending business with high profit margins. When she approached Dexter’s partner to become a reseller, he saw no issue and even saw potential. Months later, Joan took it a step further, inviting Dexter to invest in a lending operation in Brunei. He hesitated at first, especially when the borrowers were said to be locals needing capital for business. But when Joan reassured him that they were professionals with strong repayment records, he finally agreed.

His first investment was ₱225,000, repayable in 28 days with a 20% return — a rate high enough to feel rewarding but believable within the narrative she built. He did not withdraw the profit. Instead, he allowed it to be rolled back into the business, trusting that the growing returns were building a solid financial foundation. As the months passed, the money he circulated expanded, and the confidence he had in Joan deepened.

Then came what she described as “high-profile borrowers.” Joan allegedly persuaded him to accept a bigger offer — a loan amounting to ₱500,000, claiming the borrower urgently needed capital. The promise: an even higher profit percentage. Dexter admitted he was tempted, not out of greed but out of hope. After nine long years working abroad without seeing his child, he believed this opportunity could finally bring him home for good.

Receipts were issued — official-looking, stamped, with specific ROI percentages written on them. But they lacked one crucial detail: registration with the Bureau of Internal Revenue. Sitting at a table during the barangay mediation, a legal officer pointed out that since the money was transferred to Joan while she was physically in the Philippines, the transaction falls under Philippine jurisdiction. And because the receipts had no BIR accreditation, they were declared questionable.

For a while, Dexter received payments — proof, he thought, that the business truly existed and was profitable. That was until November, when the returns suddenly stopped. He said Joan only sent him ₱20,000, far from the expected amount. At that point, his calls and requests became more urgent. His child was coming home for the holidays, and what was supposed to be a joyful reunion now carried the weight of financial uncertainty.

During the mediation, Joan acknowledged that the business was not licensed by the Philippine SEC or Insurance Commission. She insisted it was based in Brunei and that she could not immediately return the capital since she was currently in the Philippines. But the officers confronted her directly: if she could collect money online from anywhere, she could also return it in the same way.

They warned her of the consequences. Under Philippine law, operating an unregistered investment scheme, issuing unaccredited receipts, and failing to return investor capital can fall under large-scale estafa — a serious criminal offense. She was reminded that excuses would not erase accountability, and that her presence in the country placed her fully within reach of its justice system.

Dexter, his voice breaking, reminded her of the trust he gave. He recalled how he begged her never to play with his money, revealing that every peso represented years of sacrifice — nine years during which he never held his child. The return he wanted now was no longer profit, just the capital that belonged to him.

Authorities also learned that Dexter was not the only complainant. Another alleged victim is prepared to come forward, hinting that the incident may involve more individuals and a larger operation than initially believed. The barangay officials advised that a formal written agreement must be filed immediately, requiring Joan to return the ₱1.1 million investment by a specified date and time.

For now, the case inches forward. The promise of repayment remains uncertain, and Dexter waits with a mixture of fear and determination — fear that his sacrifices may vanish forever, and determination to fight for what he worked so hard to earn.

Behind every number in this case is a story of distance, longing, and unshakable hope. And if this alleged scam is proven true, it serves as yet another warning to countless Filipinos abroad: trust is precious, and in the wrong hands, devastatingly costly.

As the investigation continues, one reality stands firm — Dexter is no longer silent. What was once a private heartbreak has now become a call for justice, one that could help protect others from falling into the same trap. In the coming days, the truth will determine whether this story ends in closure… or deeper loss.