Before sunrise reached the outskirts of Addis Abeba, Demelash Assefa was already on the road, measuring the city’s transport crisis in minutes, fares and absences.

At quarter to six early in the morning, the 49-year-old teacher left his home in Sendafa, a town northeast of the capital, for a daily endurance test. It begins with a 15 Br Bajaj ride, then a wait at 44 Mazoria, a location marked by the number of the bus serving the area, lasting more than an hour before the bus arrives. The ride to Megenagna takes another hour and 20 minutes and costs 40 Br. From there, the final leg to Arat Kilo takes 45 minutes more.

On good days, he reaches work by 9:00am. On bad ones, the delay carries a penalty.

"The attendance system marks you absent for half a day if you arrive after 2:45a.m.," Demelash told Fortune.

By the time he returns home, often close to 9:00p.m., the working day has swallowed more than 15 hours. It repeats five days a week, draining 150 Br a day, nearly a fifth of his 15,000 Br monthly salary. For a father of four and the sole provider, the loss is not only financial.

"I leave before my children wake up and return after they have fallen asleep," he said. "I can’t guide them or spend time with them."

What was once manageable has become punishing, shaped by fuel shortages, fewer taxis, long queues and fares that move with pressure rather than rule. Taxis, once a flexible fallback when buses failed, now bring their own uncertainty.

"Sometimes taxi fare costs more during peak hours," Demelash said, describing drivers who raise prices when passengers have few alternatives. "I'm always the first to argue when they increase prices. But it's difficult."

The pressure has entered home life. Weekly family outings have stopped. Visits to friends have become rare. Even small gestures have disappeared.

"I used to bring fruits home after work," he said. "Now I can’t. Everything is increasing day by day, but our income is fixed."

Transport costs, added to inflation, have forced life back to essentials.

For Merawie Mekonnen, a 35-year-old private-sector employee who travels each day from Qality, in the southeastern part of the capital, to Megenagna and then to Kotebe, the burden repeats in stages. Each taxi ride brings a fresh possibility of being charged above the tariff.

"In almost every trip, there is an extra 10 to 15 Br added to the tariff," he said.

On some routes, the increase could be higher. The deeper grievance is the absence of predictability.

"There are no clearly communicated tariffs," Merawie told Fortune. "This gives drivers the space to charge what they want."

Evenings and holidays bring further increases. Rising rents have also pushed residents to peripheral areas such as Qality, Sululta and Burayu, where cheaper housing often means higher transport costs.

"I've friends who moved there to find cheaper rent," Merawie says. "Now their transport costs are very high. They're struggling."

The bargain between affordable housing and reachable work is fraying. A bus ride from Qality to Addisu Gebeya may cost 30 Br. The same taxi route can exceed 150 Br. For many commuters, the choice is no longer between comfort and inconvenience but an affordable fare and a completed journey.

Both Demelash and Merawie see weak enforcement behind the daily bargaining. They obserevd that regulators and queue coordinators are unable to control fare practices consistently.

"We need stronger control," Merawie said. "And passengers also need to cooperate and stand for their rights."

Yet the story looks different from behind the wheel. On the route between Ferensay Legasion and Arat Kilo, a 37-year-old driver of a white-and-blue Toyota HiAce witnesses the transport economics changing beyond recognition. He may complete up to seven round-trip a day, but the count hides the costs. Fuel now defines the business. Filling his 65Ltr tank at 142.41 Br a litre costs about 9,300 Br, enough for roughly three days on a route where the tariff is 20 Br a trip. Monthly fuel expenses exceed 90,000 Br.

"This isn't worth it for us anymore," he told Fortune. "But, this taxi is our only source of income."

Daily income may range from 4,000 Br to 6,000 Br, but fuel takes the largest share, followed by maintenance, rent, and family expenses.

Passengers often see surcharges as arbitrary, but drivers frame them as a survival.

"When we get a chance to increase prices, we do," said the driver. "Because we also have a life and a family."

For many drivers, the official tariff no longer resembles operating reality. Even reaching the road can be difficult. Hours spent waiting at stations mean fewer trips and less income. Each lost hour tightens margins. The driver's account demonstrates part of what commuters experience. One side sees unpredictability and rising fares, while the other sees shrinking viability. Both are responding to the same pressure, from opposite ends of Addis Abeba's increasingly strained transport system.

That tension is familiar to Abraham Belayneh, a 38-year-old driver on the Qality-Megenagna route. His work, which once supported his family, is becoming difficult to maintain. Rising costs pushed him, his wife and three children back into his mother’s house.

"I used to live independently," he said. "But now I can't afford rent anymore."

The official tariff on his route is about 50 Br, but he found it barely reflects costs.

"Even if the tariff increases substantially, it still doesn’t cover our costs," said Abraham.

Fuel is only part of it. Drivers also face a web of formal and informal expenses, from terminal payments to inconsistent penalties. They pay supervisors regularly, in the morning and again in the afternoon. Fuel shortages have cut deeper. Trips have fallen from eight round-trip a day to about five. Each missed run is lost income. Abraham has let go of a taxi assistant and now drives cautiously to avoid repairs he may not be able to afford.

"I work two days, then spend three days waiting for fuel," he said.

Passengers see delays where Abraham sees risk management.

"People know why prices are higher," said Abraham. "It isn't only about benefiting."