Today, Unana sits in a prison in western Ukraine, one of a growing number of African men who went to Russia looking for work and ended up as prisoners of war.

Petro Yatsenko is the spokesperson for Ukraine's coordination headquarters for prisoners of war, and has watched the types of prisoners arriving change since 2022.

“At first, we mostly had older men,” he said. “Now, we get young [convicted] men sent to the front to shorten a prison sentence. Many arrive wounded and traumatised. One young man couldn't stop crying.”

The bigger shift, he said, is who's arriving from further afield. “At first it was citizens of the former Soviet republics: Kazakhstan, Tajikistan. Now we're getting people from Africa, Iraq, Nepal.”

A contract, signed blind

Moscow has avoided the general mobilisation of its population partly because it risks breaking the Kremlin’s implicit social contract with Russians: stay out of politics, and the state will provide stability and keep the war away from everyday life.

Anna Colin Lebedev, a political scientist at Paris Nanterre University who studies Russian society, said recruiting foreigners helps shield that contract from the human cost of the war. “The Kremlin needs Russians to believe that everything is under control and that they are living in peace.”

Ukraine's defence intelligence estimates that close to 30,000 foreign nationals from 136 countries have joined the Russian army, equivalent to roughly 2% of the 1.535 million personnel in the Russian Armed Forces.

At least 5,149 foreign recruits have been identified as killed since February 2022, while more than 700 have been captured. This figure excludes more than 14,000 North Korean troops deployed alongside Russia but serving under North Korean command.

Their paths into the Russian military vary widely. Many enlist willingly, drawn by salaries, signing bonuses, or the prospect of Russian citizenship. Others know they are joining the military but are misled about the roles they will perform or the likelihood that they will be sent into frontline assault units. Some are recruited under more deceptive circumstances.

Unana falls somewhere in between. He moved to Russia from Cameroon in 2023. A week after his arrival, immigration officers stopped him. His papers were not in order, they told him, and he would be sent home. Then came an alternative: sign a military contract, and legal papers, along with the prospect of Russian citizenship, would follow.

He signed.

Anatole, another Cameroonian prisoner, told a similar story. A contract in Russian, offered with money attached. He didn't understand a word of it.

“I signed without really knowing what I was going to do,” he told The European Correspondent. “A few weeks later, after only a few days of training, I found myself on a front line. I couldn't tell you where. Donbas, maybe. Or somewhere else.”

His story echoes Unana's: the promise of money and Russian papers, but no way to afford a ticket home even if he had wanted one.

One-way ticket to no man’s land

Then came deployment.

“There were seven of us,” Unana said. “Within the first few minutes, we were attacked. The driver died straight away. Then two others.”

He fled into the woods.

“Ukrainian drones hunted us down one by one. I watched my comrades get killed in front of me. One of them couldn't take the pressure. He killed himself in front of me.”

For a week, Unana wandered no man's land alone.

“There were bodies everywhere. Everywhere. I went from corpse to corpse, searching their bags for food and water. Then one day, I came across a position. I thought I had finally made it back to the Russians.”

He heard someone calling out: “Come, come.” They were among the few Russian words he knew. Relieved, he started walking towards the position.

Then shots rang out in his direction.

“They started shouting at me, but I couldn’t understand a word. That’s when I realised they were Ukrainians.”

The surprise went both ways. “I don’t think they expected a French-speaking Black man to suddenly walk into their position.”

Left behind

Imprisoned since 2023, Anatole and Unana have stopped expecting to go home any time soon.

“Foreigners are never on the exchange lists. It is always Russians,” Anatole said.

Ukraine does not decide whom Moscow gets back, Yatsenko explained. Russia submits its own names. The political cost of leaving Russian prisoners of war in captivity is higher for the Kremlin than leaving foreign fighters behind. Russian soldiers have families and communities at home waiting for their return, while foreign recruits have far fewer ties to Russian society.

Both men say they contacted their embassies through the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC), without success.

As prisoners of war, they are detained to keep them off the battlefield, not as punishment for having fought. Unless they are exchanged earlier, international law requires prisoners' release once active hostilities end.

Until then, they wait. Today’s menu is vegetable soup, fish, and bread baked by an inmate. Yatsenko said the prison follows the Geneva Conventions, with the ICRC visiting every two months.

On its roof, huge letters spell “POW”, warning Russian forces that prisoners of war are held below. When Russian missiles and drones approach, everyone still heads for the shelter.

“I regret it,” Unana said. “When I signed the contract, I only saw the positive side. I never thought I would end up a prisoner of war in Ukraine.”

Russia found a place for Unana in its army. Three years later, it still has not found one for him on an exchange list.