UNDER FOREIGN SKIES: A MEMOIR — PATSON N. MUSENGE JNR
The Distance Between Two Skies
Act One — Leaving
For a week, I paced between two suitcases. Every few hours I unpacked and repacked them, convinced I finally understood what life in Russia would require, only to realize moments later that I had absolutely no idea. My friends found this hilarious.
“Don’t forget chili powder,” one of them laughed. “You’ll thank me when you taste their food.”
My mother was far more practical.
“Pack socks, Patson. More socks. Cold starts in the feet.”
And with quiet determination, she added another pair to my suitcase, the way mothers prepare their children for battles they know they will not be there to fight themselves. On my bed sat a thick, heavy winter jacket, still wearing its price tag. It looked less like clothing and more like a creature I would eventually have to learn how to live inside.
During those days, I told everyone I was ready for change. I spoke about the necessity of discomfort and leaving behind the familiar, but at night, the silence in my room felt too big. The question wasn’t whether I could leave home; it was whether I would ever feel at home again.
The night before my flight was still. The heat from the day lingered in the pavement. I sat on the porch, trying to picture snow; a substance I only knew from books and movies, and wondering if my body would even recognize the cold.
Morning came too quickly. My entire family came to see me off.
Airports, I learned that day, smell like coffee, perfume, and goodbyes. I hugged each of my siblings while trying to appear composed. My father, a man of few words, simply said:
“Make us proud.”
My mother hugged me tightly and whispered words I never wrote down, but wished I had. Years later, I would still return to them on nights when the cold felt sharper and loneliness heavier.
As I walked away from the check-in area, I made one decision quickly: I would not look back; because I knew that if I did, I might not leave at all.
When the plane finally lifted off, Lusaka’s rooftops, roads, and rivers slowly disappeared beneath the clouds. The wheels retracted with a mechanical thud that sounded, for the first time, like a final goodbye. And as the ground vanished below me, I felt two things at once: free, and frighteningly small.
That journey carried me from Lusaka to Addis Ababa, then Athens, Moscow, and finally Rostov-on-Don, a southern Russian city where I would spend the next six years studying Medicine.
At the time, I knew almost nothing about the life waiting for me there. I didn’t know I would lose a suitcase, chase a stranger through an airport, and nearly get deported before seeing a single lecture hall. I didn’t know about the goat that would ruin my first job interview. Or the nurse named Galina who would teach me eleven unforgettable lessons about intensive care. Or the old samovar in Arthur’s kitchen where I would discover that Russia’s warmth is not found in its stoves, but in its people.
But those stories will come. For now, know this:
I arrived with two suitcases, a misspelled ticket, and absolutely no idea what I was doing. Sometimes, I think I still don’t. But I keep walking anyway, because that is how every great adventure begins, is it not?
—Patson
Rostov-on-Don / Lusaka
Partly extracted from my forthcoming book: Under Foreign Skies — A Memoir