The train to Kyiv departed at 7.50 pm. This was a 16-hour journey eastward. Being a nervous passenger, I am usually not a fan of long trips, but the VIP carriage offered unexpected comfort, and I managed to catch some much-needed sleep. The sleeping bunks were plush, and Starlink internet ensured we were connected throughout. I had read news reports on how Elon Musk’s Starlink infrastructure gave Ukraine a breathing space in communication after the war, and I had a great opportunity to have a first-time experience using Starlink. It was superb: fast and reliable – that is all that I could ask for in such a long journey.

As dawn crept across the horizon, the vast Ukrainian landscape unfurled like a living canvas of history, its immense expanse a reminder of how big this country really is. In terms of size, Ukraine is second only to Russia in the whole of Europe. The sheer vastness became evident as we sped past fields stretching endlessly, their earthy browns and muted golds blending seamlessly into the horizon where autumn’s remnants lingered. This land has witnessed empires rise and fall, its vastness coveted by conquerors and defended fiercely by its people.

As the train pulled into Kyiv, the city revealed itself with a quiet yet striking dignity. Stepping out of the station onto Vokzalna Square, my gaze was immediately drawn to the photogenic gold-domed St. George the Victorious Church, standing like a watchful sentinel amid the hum of urban life. Nearby, a bustling McDonald’s added a contrasting touch of modernity. Opened during Ukraine’s early days of post-Communist independence, it became a symbol of the nation’s embrace of capitalism and Western ideals. Once the most visited McDonald’s in the world, it radiates a sense of ordinary life amidst extraordinary times.

Kyiv’s streets hummed with life, a testament to its people’s determination to endure. Yet, there was an undercurrent of tension, a sense that the war was never far away. It was in the sandbags piled at checkpoints, in the murals that celebrated resilience, and in the faces of those who passed by—a mix of defiance and weariness.

As I stood there, taking it all in, I thought of my father. His stories of Odessa, the ambassador’s proclamations, and the quiet strength of the Ukrainians I had met all converged in that moment. Ukraine was not just a war zone or a headline. It was a place of complexity, of history, of humanity. And I was only beginning to understand it.

***************

The City Hotel, a four-star establishment, stood tall in the heart of Kyiv, a symbol of comfort amidst a city that bore the scars of conflict. Its elegant façade hinted at understated luxury, with a sleek, modern design that contrasted sharply with the historic architecture dotting the cityscape. I was told it was located in a district that housed most of the embassies, a detail that reassured me of its safety. This made it an ideal base for visitors like myself, cautiously exploring Ukraine during such uncertain times.

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After settling into my room and warming myself up with a cup of rich Ukrainian tea, I felt the pull of the city outside. The thermometer read a biting 2 degrees Celsius, and as I stepped out, the infamous Ukrainian cold wrapped itself around me like an unwelcoming guest. It was sharp and unrelenting, and despite layering up, I felt it seep into my bones. Yet, the allure of discovering a new city overpowered any desire to stay indoors. I reminded myself that the essence of travel is in the journey, not just the destination.

A short distance away from City Hotel was the Ukraina Mall, one of Kyiv’s largest shopping centres, and my first point of exploration. The walk there was both intriguing and nerve-wracking. As an African in Ukraine, I had heard stories of racial prejudice, and the Ukrainian Nazis – the Russian ambassador back home had highlighted that one of the goals of their special military operation was ‘denazification’.  I didn’t know much about the situation, so my guard was up as I navigated the unfamiliar streets. 

Almost all signs were in Ukrainian, and the Cyrillic script felt like a coded language, complicating my attempt to find my way. The first person I approached for directions walked past me without a word, a cold response that mirrored the weather. I hesitated before asking again, but eventually found courage in a young couple who kindly pointed me in the right direction. Their politeness helped ease my anxiety.

As I made my way, a passerby, a man, called out, “You are a very beautiful man!” It was an odd, unexpected compliment that caught me off guard. Never before had those words been used to describe me, and for a moment, I wondered if this was a quirky Ukrainian charm, or some unique transformation age was bestowing upon me. Either way, I chuckled inwardly and carried on, the remark adding a touch of levity to my cautious journey.

The mall itself was a window into Kyiv’s soul. Malls, I have often believed, are microcosms of society, reflecting aspirations, economic positioning, and style. The Ukraina Mall was no different, though its vibrancy was somewhat subdued. High-quality goods lined the shelves of shop after shop, showcasing the country’s potential for sophistication and taste. From chic clothing boutiques to artisan confectionery stores, it was clear that this was a society with an eye for quality. This was a place that one could get used to.

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None of the storekeepers spoke English. I had visited China over a decade earlier, and even though the situation was bad, it was far from being this bad. For the first time, I felt the need to install those language translation apps. I was later told that with the war, people have stopped trying since tourists have stopped coming anyway – the number of tourists had plummeted from 23 million in 2013 to 2.5 million in 2023. Hence, there is a noticeable emptiness—a lack of crowds and the shuttered doors of many stores spoke to the abnormal times. 

10 out of 43 million Ukrainians have fled their homes, with about seven million out of the country since the war began, leaving behind businesses and homes. Five million live under Russian occupation, their fate uncertain. The mall, once a bustling hub of activity, now carried the weight of these absences, probably with only about 70 per cent of its shops operational. You might not notice by taking casual walks around the streets of Kyiv, but these are not normal times. This is a country at war.

As I walked back to the hotel, the crisp air bit harder, but the warmth of these small observations stayed with me. Ukraine was a land carrying its scars with dignity, and in this city of contrasts, I found both sorrow and hope. It was not a place of ease, but it was a place of profound stories, waiting to be told. I kept thinking of those stories as I slowly drifted to sleep.

**************

I was awakened by the sound of an alarm from my phone. It is a piercing alarm saying ‘Attention, air raid alert, proceed to the nearest shelter.’

I had casually installed that into my phone, and now I am awakened by it. I had hardly slept for two hours, and with the flu and the cold and the journey, I was exhausted and really needed rest. But this was the first time in my life for me to be in a country at war, and I didn’t want to be a statistic. So, I slipped into all my cold gear and stepped out, heading to a shelter in the basement of City Hotel.

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I have never been into a bomb shelter before, and I didn’t know what to expect. But this is Europe – even its bomb shelters are better than some of our restaurants. But I was surprised to only find three people there. And none of the other Africans were there. I struck up a casual conversation with a couple – you can easily bond when you are united in your fear of Russian bombs. They told me that they are from Denmark and this wasn’t their first time in Kyiv. They told me that the city is usually more lively. I hope to visit in better days.

After about an hour in the shelter, the alarm was lifted, and we could return to our rooms. Relief was fleeting. Within two hours, the sirens blared again, sending us back underground. This cycle became our norm for the next four days. Sleep was a luxury, rationed out in intervals barely long enough to rejuvenate. Exhaustion crept in, magnified by the physical toll of my lingering cold. It felt like an unwinnable battle against fatigue, a test of endurance I hadn’t signed up for.

The same four of us always heeded the alarms, rushing to the shelter without fail. I began to question my own resolve. Was I overreacting? Why were others ignoring the warnings? More puzzlingly, why weren’t the Ukrainians themselves rushing to safety? Were they desensitised to the danger, resigned to their fate, or did they simply know something I didn’t? It was an unsettling realisation that this constant vigilance couldn’t be sustainable. Living with the expectation that every few hours your world might be upended was no way to exist.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.