Sade Ngozi

Today, as I stood outside the metro station, the chill of Moscow’s autumn air nipping at my skin, I found myself, again, fielding stares. The thing is, I don’t even notice them right away anymore. You develop a kind of sixth sense for these things after 24 years. My headphones blared music, a way to shut out the noise of it all—sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically. But as I waited for my friend Nadia, I couldn’t help but think about my recent apartment hunt.

That was an experience I don’t want to repeat anytime soon. One landlord asked if I had the wrong number when I called to inquire about the flat. Another didn’t even bother responding to my message. I could almost hear the hesitation in their voices the moment they heard my name: Ngozi. A little giveaway that I’m not what they expect. And when they meet me in person? The confusion and unease are palpable. No, they don’t expect someone like me to be fluent in Russian, and no, they don’t expect me to belong here—even though I’ve never known anywhere else.

My grandparents came to Moscow on scholarships from Nigeria, hoping for a better life. They built something here, something my parents continued. I grew up in this city. Moscow is as much mine as anyone else’s. Still, there are days I dream about leaving. Africa, maybe? Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to walk through streets where no one is surprised by my face. Maybe I wouldn’t be treated like a curiosity or an outsider in my own country.

But for now, I have my circle. My parents, my brother, my friends—mostly migrants like me, second-generation kids trying to navigate this space we’ve carved out for ourselves. When we get together, we laugh, we share our stories, and for a while, the weight lifts. It’s in those moments that I feel understood, less like I’m constantly holding my breath.

Nadia finally arrived, and we made our way down the street. Another day, another reminder that despite it all, we keep going.