“Welcome to the beautiful city of Moscow, where city lights sparkle under golden domes…or should I say, golden domes sparkle under city lights?” one of the hostesses at the airport to receive the group of African journalists bellowed cheerfully.
It was a bit chilly in Moscow, but the reception was uplifting.
The warm welcome set the tone for a week filled with striking contrasts in a capital steeped in history, tradition, and quiet resilience.
To a first-time visitor, the scale of Moscow’s grandeur became immediately apparent.
The towering Kremlin walls and the onion-shaped domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral spoke volumes of centuries of power and symbolism. At the city’s heart lay Red Square, not red as the name suggests, but a vast expanse of grey cobblestones. There stood the State Historical Museum, Lenin’s Mausoleum, and GUM, the grand department store that still whispered Soviet-era opulence. Every building in Moscow seemed to narrate a chapter of Russian history.
Inside the State Historical Museum were relics from czarist Russia, artefacts from early Slavic civilisations, and bold pieces of Soviet propaganda art. The vaulted ceilings and subdued lighting gave the space a quiet dignity. It wasn’t a museum that rushed to impress; it invited you to slow down and absorb.
Away from the tourist paths, is a city pulsing with daily life. Along Tverskaya Street, people walked briskly, occasionally stopping at kiosks for ice cream or cigarettes. There was a reservedness among the locals, yet it wasn’t unwelcoming.
A few people approached me, intrigued and asking for photos, not out of rudeness, but curiosity, particularly because I stood out as a Black woman in Moscow.
Communication, although initially challenging, found its rhythm through translation apps. Conversations often avoided politics. The ongoing war in Ukraine wasn’t openly discussed. In the areas we explored, there were no propaganda posters or visible military patrols. Despite the quiet tension in the air, Moscow remained culturally alive. The metro stations, more palace than platform, were attractions in their own right, gleaming with chandeliers, mosaics, and bronze statues.
Then there was the food, hearty, unfamiliar, and heavy. I tried borsch, the beetroot soup served with sour cream, and Russian dumplings. The seasoning leaned more towards herbs than the fiery heat I was used to in Lagos. The portions were generous, the presentation modest.
Even under the pressure of international sanctions, Moscow had not lost its rhythm. If anything, it felt more introspective, a city looking inward, but still full of pride and ritual. From the grandeur of the Kremlin to quiet, stilted conversations with strangers, the city revealed itself in unexpected layers, historical, political, and deeply human.
Moscow’s story stretches back to 1147, when it began as a small trading post along the Moskva River, which gave the city its name. By the late 15th century, under Ivan III (Ivan the Great), it had emerged as the centre of a unified Russian state and the seat of the Orthodox Church. With the construction of the Kremlin’s fortified walls and the golden-domed cathedrals, its symbolic stature was sealed. Though Peter the Great shifted the capital to St. Petersburg in the 18th century, Moscow remained Russia’s spiritual and cultural anchor. It regained its capital status after the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution and went on to become the nerve centre of the Soviet Union, and later, the Russian Federation.
My visit to Moscow wasn’t just about sightseeing. It was primarily
It was an encounter with a city both familiar and foreign, beautiful yet sobered by its geopolitical reality. In the kindness of strangers, the silence of monuments, and the dignity of its people, Moscow didn’t explain itself. It simply revealed.
When I arrived in Moscow, the air was a little cold, but the greeting I received was unexpectedly warm. “Welcome to the beautiful city of Moscow,” one of the airport greeters said cheerfully, “where city lights sparkle under golden domes… or should I say, golden domes sparkle under city lights?” That warm welcome set the tone for a week filled with striking contrasts in a capital steeped in history, tradition, and quiet resilience. From the moment I stepped into the city, the scale of Moscow’s grandeur became immediately apparent.
The towering Kremlin walls and the onion-shaped domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral spoke volumes of centuries of power and symbolism. At the city’s heart lay Red Square, not red as the name suggests, but a vast expanse of grey cobblestones. There stood the State Historical Museum, Lenin’s Mausoleum, and GUM, the grand department store that still whispered of Soviet-era opulence. Every building in Moscow seemed to narrate a chapter of Russian history.
Inside the State Historical Museum, I wandered past relics from czarist Russia, artefacts from early Slavic civilisations, and bold pieces of Soviet propaganda art. The vaulted ceilings and subdued lighting gave the space a quiet dignity. It wasn’t a museum that rushed to impress; it invited you to slow down and absorb. Away from the tourist paths, I found a city pulsing with daily life. Along Tverskaya Street, people walked briskly, occasionally stopping at kiosks for ice cream or cigarettes. There was a reservedness among the locals, yet I never felt unwelcome.
A few people approached me, intrigued and asking for photos, not out of rudeness, but curiosity, particularly because I stood out as a Black woman in Moscow. Communication, although initially challenging, found its rhythm through translation apps. Conversations often avoided politics. The ongoing war in Ukraine wasn’t openly discussed. In the areas I explored, there were no propaganda posters or visible military patrols. Despite the quiet tension in the air, Moscow remained culturally alive. The metro stations, more palace than platform, were attractions in their own right, gleaming with chandeliers, mosaics, and bronze statues.
Then there was the food, hearty, unfamiliar, and heavy. I tried borsch, the beetroot soup served with sour cream, and pelmeni ( Russian dumplings). The seasoning leaned more towards herbs than the fiery heat I was used to in Lagos. The portions were generous, the presentation modest.
Even under the pressure of international sanctions, Moscow had not lost its rhythm. If anything, it felt more introspective, a city looking inward, but still full of pride and ritual. From the grandeur of the Kremlin to quiet, stilted conversations with strangers, the city revealed itself in unexpected layers, historical, political, and deeply human.
Moscow’s story stretched back to 1147, when it began as a small trading post along the Moskva River, which gave the city its name. By the late 15th century, under Ivan III (Ivan the Great), it had emerged as the centre of a unified Russian state and the seat of the Orthodox Church. With the construction of the Kremlin’s fortified walls and the golden-domed cathedrals, its symbolic stature was sealed. Though Peter the Great shifted the capital to St. Petersburg in the 18th century, Moscow remained Russia’s spiritual and cultural anchor. It regained its capital status after the 1917 Bolshevik Revolution and went on to become the nerve centre of the Soviet Union, and later, the Russian Federation.
My visit to Moscow wasn’t primarily about sightseeing though. It was on the invitation of RT to participate in a week-long exchange programme to hone journalistic skills while also enjoying the beauty of Moscow’s sights.
It turned out to be an encounter with a city both welcoming and foreign, beautiful yet sobered by its geopolitical reality. In the kindness of strangers, the silence of monuments, and the dignity of its people, Moscow didn’t explain itself; it simply revealed.
Chioma Kalu
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