Luxury of the Ordinary

Oct 18 , 2025
By Eden Sahle

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Every shirt, shoe, and stitch in Ethiopia tells a story about inflation and inequality. What was once an effortless purchase has become an act of financial endurance. For millions earning in Birr, shopping for clothes now feels like stepping into a luxury boutique. Even the second-hand markets that once symbolised thrift now mirror the same crisis, four-digit price tags on faded fabric. The decline of local manufacturing has left the nation dependent on imported goods whose costs rise with every fluctuation in global exchange rates. Meanwhile, households with relatives abroad enjoy a quiet privilege: remittances and reliable access to durable, branded items. Inflation has made dressing decently an economic statement, dividing communities not by ambition but by access. The fabric of society is literally stretching thin, one overpriced garment at a time.

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A few weeks ago, I stood before a shop window in Addis Abeba, staring at a child’s outfit, simple trousers and a shirt priced at 7,000 Br. For a moment, I wondered if the tag was misplaced. It wasn’t. That tiny piece of fabric cost more than what many civil servants earn in a month.

It struck me then how something as ordinary as clothing had become a measure of privilege.

Before motherhood, my work trips to Europe made shopping effortless. I could buy quality clothes, well-stitched, durable, and stylish, at prices that seemed fair, even modest. Years later, those same clothes still look new, unfaded and intact. When I got married, my husband’s parents in the United States began sending us clothes and shoes for our growing family. For a while, we were shielded from the local reality.

That comfort ended the day we went shopping for gifts for our friends’ children. The sticker shock was enough to sober anyone.

The inflation that has gripped the country is not just numbers in reports, it’s hanging in every closet and every price tag. For many families, buying clothes is no longer a seasonal ritual; it’s a financial strategy. Second-hand shops, once the great equaliser for struggling households, no longer offer much refuge. Worn jeans and faded shirts now come with price tags that feel cruelly out of touch.

Clothing has quietly become a social divider. Those who have relatives abroad, or access to foreign currency, live in a parallel market where parcels arrive filled with affordable, long-lasting items. Meanwhile, millions relying solely on local markets are left with poor-quality imports priced like designer wear.

This divide runs deeper than style. It’s visible in schools and playgrounds, a child wearing sturdy sneakers beside another in shoes with torn soles. The difference isn’t taste, effort, or hygiene; it’s access.

At its root, this isn’t a fashion story. It’s an economic one. The birr’s collapse against major currencies has pushed up the cost of every imported item, from fabric to footwear. Importers pay in dollars, wholesalers add margins, and by the time goods reach the rack, the price has multiplied beyond reason.

Yet, what Ethiopians pay for is not quality. The market is flooded with low-cost, low-durability imports, items made to be worn out, not worn long. Still, by the time they reach our shelves, they’re sold at prices higher than better-quality products in Europe or the U.S. It’s a paradox of the global economy: Ethiopians pay luxury prices for disposable goods.

The failure of the domestic textile and leather industries only deepens the wound. The government once imagined a manufacturing boom, industrial parks, export zones, and job creation. The promise was that Ethiopia would clothe itself and the continent. That dream faltered under the weight of power outages, costly logistics, raw material shortages, and a foreign currency crunch. Factories scaled down or shut entirely, leaving a gaping hole filled by imports.

The outcome is a quiet but powerful class divide built on access to foreign exchange. Those who can tap into remittances or diaspora support are insulated. The rest navigate a market that punishes local earners with prices indexed to currencies they’ll never touch.

Beyond economics, clothing has always carried cultural weight. It signifies dignity, belonging, and pride. When families can no longer afford proper clothes, it chips away at more than their finances, it erodes confidence and self-worth.

The story of clothing is the story of our economy itself. Inflation, currency collapse, weak industries, and stagnant wages have turned basic needs into luxuries.

If the country can stabilise its currency and revive domestic manufacturing, through credit, steady power, and access to quality materials, it could turn this tide. A strong textile sector would not only clothe citizens but restore balance between price and worth.

Progress won’t come simply when clothes are cheaper. It will come when every household, whether in Addis Abeba or Arba Minch, can afford to dress their children without fear of the price tag. That is the real luxury of the ordinary, when dignity is no longer a privilege, but a given.

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PUBLISHED ON Oct 18,2025 [ VOL 26 , NO 1329]

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