Before Russia’s war in Ukraine began, many Africans had not given any thought to Ukraine. It was one of those places often blurred in our collective consciousness, lumped with other former Soviet states, which existed in the shadow of their larger neighbour. For most of us, Russia was the singular identity of the USSR.
Yet, as the war unfolded, we found ourselves bombarded with images of bombed-out cities and streams of refugees. Suddenly, Ukraine demanded our attention. For many of us, it was no longer a question of where Ukraine was but what it represented—and, inevitably, whose side we were on.
Unlike many of my peers, I have been hearing about Ukraine since I was little because my father was among the tens of thousands of African students who studied in the USSR during its Soviet heyday. For six years, he lived in Odessa, studying advanced engineering in electronics and communications.
He also came back with a diploma in philosophy and communism, flattering himself to be an atheist: education in the USSR was dubbed to be free, but that doesn’t mean it had no price. All in all, I grew up hearing about Kyiv and Odessa long before the war, with my father’s stories woven into my childhood memories.
But in Kiswahili, my mother tongue, there is only one word for both Russia and the USSR: Urusi. So, for us, Ukraine was merely part of the vast Urusi monolith. The idea that Ukraine was its own country, distinct from Russia, didn’t register. Even today, this mental map of the world persists: therefore, regardless of how hard I try to condition my mind, I will always think of my father as having studied in Urusi, not Ukraine.
Visiting Ukraine
When I received an invitation from the French and Ukrainian Ministries of Foreign Affairs in November 2024 to visit Ukraine, my emotions were complex. Odessa was on the itinerary—a place I had heard so much about but never expected to see. It felt almost sacred, like a pilgrimage to a city my father had walked decades ago.
But it wasn’t just nostalgia that stirred within me. There was also apprehension. This was Ukraine, a country at war. Was it safe to go? My rational side intervened. Surely, the people inviting me were of sound mind. If they believed it was dangerous, they wouldn’t have extended the invitation, would they? Yet, as I packed my bags, I couldn’t shake the unease.
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Months earlier, I was to meet the Russian Ambassador to Tanzania, H.E. Andrey Avetisyan. The meeting didn’t materialise then, but now it seemed imperative. If I was going to Ukraine, I needed to understand the Russian perspective—not from second-hand accounts but from someone who spoke for Moscow. After all, Russia was appointing very high-ranking diplomats to Tanzania, a strategic move according to a government strategist friend.
I met the ambassador on 6th November at the Russian Cultural Centre in Dar es Salaam. When I talk to foreign diplomats, they are usually keen to hear what I think of this or other issues. You have to be careful lest you leave without hearing them say anything significant.
But I didn’t have that problem with Mr Avetisyan. For two hours, he laid out Russia’s case with the fervour of someone speaking not just for a country but for a cause. He knew my position—I had publicly criticised the invasion, questioned Tanzania’s abstention at the UN vote, and written about Europe’s historical fear of Russia. Yet, he was undeterred.
The ambassador took his time to provide the Russian perspective of the situation, and the Russian perspective it was: he went through a whole array of justifications for Russia’s ‘Special Military Operation’ in Ukraine, you could tick them one by one. I strongly disagreed with some of his arguments, but other arguments challenged me to think more deeply, especially about the Russian perception of the threat coming from NATO’s encirclement.
By the end, the ambassador delivered a pronouncement that stayed with me: “Ukraine will not go back to its 1991 borders.” At that moment, I realised that I had glimpsed President Vladimir Putin’s vision through his emissary.
Ukraine, I thought, had a monumental task ahead.
Meeting other invitees
On November 15th, I arrived in Paris to meet the other invitees. Representatives from ten African nations had been gathered: South Africa, Nigeria, Senegal, Cameroon, Burkina Faso, Chad, Guinea, Ghana, the DRC, and Tanzania. It was an eclectic mix, each delegate carrying their worldview and questions about the war. For me, it was also a chance to observe—to validate or challenge the assumptions I held about these nations and their people.
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Paris was brisk, with temperatures hovering around nine degrees. It had been almost two years since I last visited the City of Light on France’s Future Leaders Program, and the Seine was as captivating as ever. But the chilly air, combined with my lack of warm clothing, left me with a nagging cold. Not the ideal start for a journey of this magnitude.
The delegates were a fascinating bunch. Language quickly became both a unifier and a divider. While all of us spoke some level of English, none of the Anglophones spoke French. For the Francophones, French was more than a language; it was a source of pride.
Their demeanour transformed when they spoke—confidence radiating, their words sounded rich with nuance. Yet, it created a subtle divide. Conversations often drifted into French, leaving the rest of us on the periphery. It was a reminder of the colonial legacies that still shape our African identities.
Safety was a recurring theme in our discussions, with many delegates openly voicing their anxieties about travelling to a war zone. Their questions, often tinged with doubt, made me wonder why they had chosen to come at all. For me, the answer was clear: this was a rare opportunity to connect, to learn, and to witness firsthand what no news report could ever fully capture.
It was also an opportunity to link up with other African professionals and learn something about their nations. Onboard the Emirates flight from Dar es Salaam to Dubai, I found solace in an episode of Bob Hearts Abishola, a Hollywood sitcom that playfully explores Nigerian culture.
Eager to share my amusement, I brought it up in conversations, only to discover that none of the other delegates had watched it. The revelation left me disheartened—what is Africa coming to if we can’t even bond over Chuck Lorre’s witty take on one of our own cultures?
Trip to Warsaw
The next day, we flew to Warsaw to begin our overland journey to Kyiv. With Ukrainian airspace closed since the war’s onset, the train was our only option. Warsaw greeted me like an old acquaintance. I was in Warsaw a year earlier and I was greatly enchanted by its blend of communist and modern architecture.
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The Vistula River flowed quietly through the city: while it doesn’t dominate Warsaw the way the Seine River dominates Paris, it was yet another poignant reminder of how geography and history are intertwined. But in Poland, literally flatland, the intertwining hasn’t been just about geography and history, it has also been about culture and nations and empires, which have all left their indelible marks on this land.
Ukraine is one of them. While the two nations have had their share of trouble in history, nothing could have united them more than their solidarity against Russia. When the war erupted, more than 7.5 million Ukrainian refugees crossed the border into Poland, and more than 1.5 million remained.
The population of some cities surged by as much as 50 per cent, still, there was an outpouring of goodwill towards the Ukrainians and, with the help of the European Union, the Poles made a valiant effort to integrate the refugees, providing work, shelters, and schools for children. I visited two centres for Ukrainian refugees in Poland. It was interesting to observe that even one ‘make-shift’ school looked posher than the best of our schools.
The difference between Europe and Africa is huge.Charles Makakala is a technology and management consultant based in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. He is available at makakalajr@yahoo.com and on X as @makakalajr. The opinions expressed here are the writer’s own and do not necessarily reflect those of The Chanzo. If you are interested in publishing in this space, please contact our editors at editor@thechanzo.com.
