On a luminous Sunday afternoon at Mesqel Square, the chatter of conversation merges with the squeals of children who dart after pigeons, couples pose under sculpted arches, and the smell of chips, samussa, and roasted corn drifts through the air.
In the middle of the plaza stood Abraham Tebkew, a 26-year-old street photographer in a grey windbreaker, who lifted his camera. He caught a smiling family against a fountain that danced in coloured light.
Fewer than three years ago, Abraham was hauling sacks off lorries in Merkato, the vast open-air market where, legend says, Addis Abeba never seems to sleep. Born in the Awi Zone of the Amhara Regional State, he had travelled south in search of work. Yet, the clamour around the “Autobis Tera” bus terminal and the spectre of drifting into addiction unsettled him.
“I needed change,” he recalled, a shy grin forming as he twisted the lens cap in his hand.
A friend’s suggestion changed his life. Abraham scraped together enough money to buy a second-hand digital camera for under 30,000 Br and began wandering near the Sheraton Hotel, charging 200 Br for a half-hour shoot.
Today, most street photographers ask between 30 Br and 40 Br for a single image; group portraits fetch more, depending on props and edits. The business is lively, though official restrictions in some parts of the city leave Abraham uneasy.
His first camera served its purpose, but its limitations soon became apparent. He now shoulders a professional body and a zoom lens worth more than 165,000 Br.
“I planned to buy a modern camera to take good pictures,” he said, patting the strap. “If I earn more, I want to open a studio.”
For the moment, he shares a flat, splitting 8,000 Br in rent with a friend, yet still manages to save over 10,000 Br every month. Up to 2,000 Br is wired to relatives back home in Gojjam. For holidays, he covers the family shopping spree in full.
“Photography on the road is now our livelihood,” he told Fortune. “It sustains our lives and our families.”
But livelihood comes at a price. Photographers authorised to operate around Mesqel Square hand over 500 Br a day to the park administration, and earnings depend on the weather.
“It’s based on conditions,” he said.
A sunny afternoon can draw enough customers to generate between 1,000 Br and 2,500 Br; in the rain, the square empties. Weekends and evenings, when dancing fountains and neon floodlights switch on, deliver the busiest shifts.
The redesigned square is a microcosm of the modern capital. Uniformed security officers patrol tidy paths, vendors hawk fast food, and bicycle stalls do brisk business with children. At this stage, a new cohort of self-employed photographers is carving out a future in a city that is changing faster than at any time in its history.
Among them is Nahom Alemayehu, a native of Addis Abeba who has wanted to hold a camera since childhood. He trained for a year and collected his certificate in 2021, landing a first wage of 4,000 Br a month, “meagre,” he laughs, “but my heart was never about money”.
His debut birthday shoot did not go to plan.
“My first birthday shoot was a disaster,” he confessed. “I took photos all day, but very few were good. The client almost didn’t pay.”
Having learned on the job, Nahom now earns between 800 Br and 3,000 Br a day. Fasting seasons shrink footfall, yet weekends remain lucrative.
The city administration recognises the profession, issuing badges and areas of operation, but access depends on location. Nahom avoids Piassa, the colonial-era centre, and instead works at places such as the Sheraton forecourt, Mexico Square, and the National Park. Selam Park, located on Africa Avenue, farther from Mesqel Square, prohibits the use of freelance cameras altogether.
“Security tells us we can’t work there,” he said with a shrug.
In Casanchis, the gentrifying district of his youth, city code enforcers repeat the same mantra: “The area must be organised first.”
Even Selam Park has tweaked the rules. Management recently hired eight designated photographers, turning what was once a free-for-all into a structured rota of daily employees. In May, hoping to follow that model, Nahom and his mates petitioned the parks administration to form a cooperative.
“They tell us to bring a letter from the district,” he told Fortune. “But the district needs confirmation from the parks office. It just goes around in circles.”
However, he remained optimistic that the paperwork would align.
The backdrop to these turf battles is the city’s corridor development project, launched in February last year. Phase one resurfaced 48Km of arterial roads through Piassa, Arat Kilo, Bole, Megenagna, Mexico and CMC for three billion Birr, displacing more than 11,000 residents – Nahom’s family among them – and pulling down scores of small businesses. Municipal officials say the pain will yield long-term gains.
“We’re building more than just parks,” said Wubinet Belay, deputy chief executive of the Addis Abeba City Administration Public Recreation Areas Corporation, the agency overseeing the new green strips. “These are job-creating spaces.”
More than 85 parks already dot the city, and another 60 are on the drawing board. Fountains, low-energy lights, and permanent kiosks are designed to keep visitors and their spending power in place after dark. Each site currently provides employment for between 20 and 30 vendors, cleaners, maintenance staff, and restroom attendants. Plans would pass the water and electricity bills on to tenants.
Photographers are welcome, Wubinet insisted, as long as they present a united face.
“We prioritise those who have worked at a site the longest,” he told Fortune. “They will pay a fee based on location, then they can operate.”
Approximately 100 photographers work daily at Meskel Square, with numbers doubling on weekends. Another 23 photographers are active at the Adwa Museum, and 13 operate around the Ethio-Cuba Friendship Park.
Nahom already puts away roughly 10,000 Br a month and says formal recognition would help him grow.
Others are still climbing.
Dawit Amha, 25, embodies the new wave. He borrowed a 40,000-Br camera from a friend, took a year of formal training at Tom Photography & Videography School. He is now debt-free.
“When I started, I had only passion and a loan,” Dawit said. “Now, I can take care of myself.”
His dream is a high-end body and the freedom to shoot wherever the light falls.
He began outside the Sheraton on Taitu St., but drifted to Mexico Square after bulldozers cleared the old Total filling station and replaced it with polished paving, a fountain, and a softly lit café popular with evening strollers. Last month, local officials banned informal photography in the area.
“There’s no more work in that area or many others,” Dawit said.
He pointed to Mesqel Square as proof that order can work. There, photographers have grouped themselves and pay 500 Br each day in exchange for security guards leaving them to work. Around Mexico Square, the remaining camerapersons keep their shutters half-closed, wary of being moved on. In Piassa, a handful of unlicensed photographers have been arrested.
The elder statesman of the craft is Eshetu Lemecha, a father of three who has spent more than two decades behind the lens. A friend nudged him into the trade, and he learned by watching.
“With no training, but sheer courage and a friend showing me around, I started the very next day,” he recalled.
His first film camera cost 300 Br, the money borrowed from close friends. He still remembers the subject of his maiden frame, outside St. Yohanis Church on Arbegnoch Street, close to Ras Desta Hospital.
“My first pay was three Birr,” he laughed. “I was thrilled then.”
Before the corridor upgrade, Eshetu struggled to attract customers beneath a simple sign that read “Addis Abeba”. The sign has gone and he now works in a group of 20 around the Adwa Museum, an ensemble of plazas near the statue of Emperor Menelik II and opposite the Mayor’s office. His current camera, bought used for 60,000 Br, would once have cost 200,000 Br. The ambition is a family studio.
“I plan to print memories,” he said. “What my clients give me may disappear, but what I give them will never vanish.”
Eshetu’s collective has expanded to cover official functions at the museum, which celebrates African victories and pan-Africanism with an amphitheatre, youth centres, and public libraries. Tourists arrive by the busload, and photographers follow in their footsteps.
Not every lens is lured by the new boulevards, however.
Mulugeta Werqiye, a travel photographer and founder of the Ethiopian Photography Tour, has spent a decade guiding amateurs and professionals across Ethiopia. He shows first-timers how to navigate the capital, but seasoned visitors prefer older textures.
“They want to capture the old vibe, places like Lalibela, Merkato, and the traditional lifestyle in South Omo,” said Mulugeta. “They aren’t interested in photographing gentrified areas like Piassa or Mexico.”
One guest was so particular that he refused to press the shutter in Gondar after hearing that the castle had been limewashed.
“He said he would return only when it looked old again,” said Mulugeta.
The wildlife segment, by contrast, is booming. He observed that interest among foreign nationals and local wildlife photographers was growing.
“This is where Ethiopia’s true photographic value lies,” he told Fortune.
On the streets of Addis Abeba, reactions can be mixed.
“Some laugh or react negatively,” he said. “But, I still appreciate the work these cameramen are doing.”
Business consultant Misikir Mulugeta considers the shift overdue. He views the corridor development as an opportunity for photographers to diversify their income. Without organisation, he argues, they will miss out on larger contracts and tie-ups with tour groups.
“Photographers should get organised to gain legitimacy and access to better opportunities,” he said.
Misikir reels off ideas – selling prints on T-shirts or mugs, offering instant souvenir shots, partnering with travel operators – before laying down a challenge.
“They should give me something I can’t get on my phone,” he said. “Photography now needs to offer more: creativity, originality, and professional quality.”
He insisted that cameras can yet lead an industry “that preserves memory, tells stories, and shapes history.”
By twilight, Mesqel Square glows orange. The last rays of sun bounced off the wet concrete; children slid across the polished surface, their laughter mingling with the hum of generators. Abraham tweaked his shutter speed for a final frame while Nahom, a few metres away, scrolled through his day’s haul beneath a lamppost.
The park, once a patch of bare ground, has become both sanctuary and studio. The corridor development has redrawn the map of Addis Abeba, sweeping away long-established neighbourhoods yet opening unexpected paths to self-employment. For these photographers, each click is income, and each print is a reminder that memories still matter to many.