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Author: Yeabkal

Flower Boom Rises Abroad While Domestic Markets Struggle to Bloom

Posted on by Yeabkal

Methera once shimmered like a Dutch postcard tucked into Ethiopia’s Rift Valley. Officially called Merti-Methera, the town 193Km southeast of Addis Abeba, was designed in the 1950s by Handelsvereniging Amsterdam, popularly known as HVA, after the Dutch conglomerate carved thousands of hectares of sugar cane out of the valley floor.

Brick cottages stood in rows, footpaths arched under shade trees, and every yard brimmed with climbing lilies, geraniums and petunias. Visitors talked about evenings scented with blossoms and gardens that looked more European than African. I grew up in those lanes. A walk to school meant brushing against lavender petunias, and weekends were for helping neighbours prune roses. Plants steadied the pulse and proved how order comes from tending small things.

But Methera’s beauty did not last. The sugar estate faltered, its population growth overwhelmed water lines and roads, and municipal care evaporated. Paths cracked, irrigation ditches clogged with silt, and the flowerbeds that once dazzled the valley turned brown. Residents have tried patchwork repairs, yet a swelling influx of settlers keeps the job unfinished.

That personal loss echoes through my work in the floriculture industry. In travels across Africa, Asia and Europe, I pass towns that still treat flowers as public infrastructure. Amsterdam budgets for “flower streets” each spring and Tokyo’s Ginza district hires botanists to compose tiny sidewalk beds. Addis Abeba has begun borrowing that template, and the effort comes when the flower economy is both booming and lopsided.

The country ships an average 274tns of cut flowers every day, roughly 100,000tns a year, to buyers in Europe and the Middle East. Roses dominate the cargo, joined by summer blooms, ornamental cuttings and potted plants. Exports rank among Ethiopia’s top earners of hard currency and, admirers say, lift the mood of consumers abroad.

If tulips cheer Dutch windowsills, why should Ethiopians settle for drooping stems at home?

The imbalance comes from a tug of war between export demand and domestic supply. Policy prizes dollars, so first-rate blooms seldom linger in Addis Abeba. However, a swelling middle class is rewriting the equation. The capital hosts 134 embassies, 28 United Nations agencies and 2,953 civil society groups. Offices mark openings with bouquets, and families use flowers to celebrate birthdays, graduations, weddings, Christmas, Easter, Ramadan and Valentine’s Day. Disposable income is inching upward, and so are expectations for quality and choice.

City officials count 903 flower shops scattered through Bole, Yeka, Kirkos, Kolfe-Qeraniyo, Aqaqi-Qaliti, Nifas Silk-Lafto, Addis Ketema and Lideta districts. Much of their merchandise comes from the same highland farms that feed European auctions. But what fails to meet export standards often arrives wilted, with flaccid stems, faded colours, and weak leaves. A survey conducted this month found a mixed bouquet selling for 8,000 Br to 35,000 Br, depending on neighbourhood, species and season.

Traditional storefronts struggle to justify those sums. Many display flowers in galvanised buckets under bare bulbs and rely on pickups that bounce along unrefrigerated roads for hours. Cold-chain gaps can cut vase life in half before the stems reach the market. There are no accredited college programs in floristry; vocational schools seldom mention the craft. Most shopkeepers learn by trial and error, often through YouTube.

City planners believe the gap presents an opportunity. A corridor development program seeks to transform Addis Abeba into a smart city, commercial gateway, and tourism hub. Roads are being widened, riverbanks are cleaned, bike lanes are painted, and new parks are planned. Hanging baskets already swing above stretches of Bole Road, Casanchis and Megenagna, splashing concrete canyons with colour. Hillside forests now carry preservation fences, and volunteers line fresh sidewalks with marigolds. Greenery eases stress, encourages walking and softens the skyline’s glass and steel.

In March 2024, the Investment Board issued a directive, opening the wholesale and retail flower trade, which had been previously off-limits to foreign capital. Early entrants talk about climate-controlled warehouses, branded kiosks and a florist college that would teach design theory, plant care and shop arithmetic. A Dutch-Kenyan consortium plans to include certification courses and scholarships for low-income students in its two-year blueprint.

More than a dozen foreign delegations have toured sites this year, and the city officials plan a flower fair at a new exhibition centre. They hope the inaugural event, tentatively set for next spring, will draw growers from Kenya, Rwanda and beyond, turning Addis Abeba into East Africa’s flower marketplace. Bougainvillaea and hibiscus motifs already decorate tourism brochures and may soon migrate from paper to pavement.

There may be concerns over liberalisation policy that coincides with a wider push to privatise once-protected sectors. There could also be a fear that imported stems could undercut domestic farmers who depend on local outlets for seconds, and whether a city wrestling with intermittent water shortages should devote scarce resources to ornamental plants. However, many residents welcome the change.

Officials frame the initiative in economic terms. A greener capital, they argue, will attract conferences and high-spending tourists, creating jobs ranging from warehouse packers to delivery cyclists. The corridor plan sets canopy targets and encourages private sponsorship for street-side maintenance. However, logistics remain the logjam.

Pilot projects envision refrigerated trucks linking farms in Holeta and Ziway to depots on the city’s fringe, with electric vans carrying orders downtown in under two hours. Some investors pitch “dark stores,” mini-warehouses that ship online bouquets within minutes. Courier apps already deliver coffee. Carnations could ride the same circuit.

Quality is another frontier that requires export protocols from pre-dawn cutting and hydration in chilled water to boxing at four degrees Celsius. Applying that discipline locally will raise costs, but retailers insist buyers will pay if petals stay fresh for a week. The broad price range leaves room for both premium and budget tiers.

Taste may prove the bigger test. Europe rotates arrangements by season (tulips in spring and dahlias in autumn) while Addis Abeba still equates romance with red roses year-round. Shopkeepers discuss pop-up classes, Instagram tutorials, and window-display contests to broaden palates. The proposed florist college would devote an entire semester to colour theory and native species, because flowers deliver more than a mere trade.

Hanging bouquets double as public art, sparking selfies and teaching children their colours. Studies in other cities link urban greenery to cooler streets and cleaner air. Addis Abeba’s planners hope bougainvillaea can do as much for civic morale as another billboard.

Investors betting on the domestic retail flower market, therefore, face a double mandate to keep stems fresh and keep communities engaged. If they strike that balance, the capital could bloom in more than one sense, and a country that exports petals by the planeload might finally reserve a fragrant share for itself.

Boardrooms Without Gender Diversity Mirror Corporate Governance Deficit

Posted on by Yeabkal

The composition of board directors serving public and private institutions has become headline news, and few topics provoke more attention than gender balance at the top.

Research continues to show that boards function better when men and women share the table. Yet, women still struggle to secure a seat at the table almost everywhere. According to Deloitte Global’s latest survey, women now hold about 20pc of board seats worldwide. Although it is progress, the report calls it “unacceptably slow.”

Campaigns such as the U.N. Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs) and initiatives by the OECD and the World Economic Forum treat parity as a tool for promoting fairness and sharper decision-making. Europe shows what happens when intent turns into law.

France, Norway, and Germany impose quotas that reserve 30pc to 40pc of board seats for women. The numbers tend to rise once legislation replaces polite insistence.

Still, as of 2024, women occupied fewer than one-third of board positions, and gains remain uneven across regions and sectors. Heavy industry lags behind, while the financial sector and consumer goods industries move more quickly. A bottleneck in the executive pipeline explains part of the gap. Fewer women reach senior management, leaving boards to choose from a shallow pool.

Africa offers a patchwork of breakthroughs.

South Africa bakes diversity into its governance code and routinely tops continental league tables. Kenya and Nigeria weigh diversity when regulators approve directors.

Rwanda stands out for its women, who hold over 60pc of parliamentary seats, about 27pc of chair roles at listed companies, and the highest share of female board chairs in Africa, at roughly 33pc. Nearly 39pc of Rwandan firms have at least one woman director, proof that political commitment can spill into corporate life even without a quota.

Elsewhere, women fill fewer than 20pc of board seats. Cultural norms, thin leadership ladders, and lenient enforcement contribute to low diversity. Yet lenders and stock exchanges now press for disclosure, making the question one of timing, not principle.

The answer in Ethiopia varies by sector. Most private and state firms operate without a binding governance code; the balance of gender representation fluctuates with each board’s preferences. Banking and insurance are distinct, as both fall under the supervision of the National Bank of Ethiopia (NBE).

Earlier rules left diversity to discretion. Recent reforms require at least two women to be represented on every bank board. The upgrade is welcome, but still shy of the threshold set by Rosabeth Moss Kanter, whose “critical mass” theory argues that boards need three women, about 30pc, to shift culture.

Kanter’s number matters. Once a minority reaches critical mass, members can challenge groupthink and forge alliances strong enough to shape strategy and risk oversight. Studies link such dynamics to clearer planning and steadier performance.

Ethiopia has two paths to reach that level. One approach is to embed targets in a refreshed governance code, maintaining companies’ flexibility while signalling their intent. The other can be straightforward. Policymakers can legislate a quota that forces firms above a certain size to seat a fixed share of female directors.

Backers of soft codes argue that they encourage buy-in and adapt to local nuances. Sceptics counter that voluntary rules often gather dust. Supporters of quotas point to Europe’s experience, noting that Rwanda’s parliament changes speed up when numbers carry legal weight. Critics warn quotas can backfire if they turn qualified women into compliance tools or feed claims that talent is scarce.

The cost of inertia is not disputable. Global investors track environmental, social, and governance metrics and punish laggards. Employees and customers read company values in the faces around the board table. Countries that sideline half their talent cede an advantage when innovation drives market shifts.

For Ethiopia, an economy courting foreign capital, board diversity should be more than optics. Banks already face tougher capital and digital rules. Broader gender representation could boost credibility with multilateral institutions and bring fresh insight into consumer finance and technology adoption. Insurers coping with climate risk may benefit from a broader lens on catastrophe models and product design.

Moving from two women per board to three will not fix every governance flaw, but it would sharpen the questions directors ask, the risks they flag, and the markets they serve. Deloitte’s findings remind the world that progress is real but slow.

Representation is mirror and motor. Ethiopia can leave the mirror cracked or polish it until it reflects its demographic composition talent. The payoff could stretch from boardrooms to bottom lines. In time, the broader economy can benefit from boards meant to steer.

On Climate Change, the Market Is Wrong Again

Posted on by Yeabkal

As business, government, and nonprofit leaders debate the future of climate action ahead of the United Nations Climate Change Conference (COP30) in Brazil, the global economy remains vulnerable to acute and chronic climate-driven shocks whose impact could be more severe than that of the 2008 global financial crisis. At a time when many governments and businesses continue to underestimate and underprice physical climate risk, it is essential to remember that neither financial markets nor regulators are always right.

What if their current complacency about climate risks is catastrophically wrong?

The 2008 financial crisis and its aftermath showed how fast our expectations can be shattered. In the mid-2000s, deregulation and simplification were the norm. Balance sheets were run thin, and profits and losses ran high. Financial engineering boomed as risks were packaged, diluted, and obfuscated, and as credit was given where it had not been earned. In the face of all this, expressions of concern were drowned out by the din of transactions. But the signs were there that the fundamentals were not right.

By late 2008, the global economy was teetering on the brink of collapse. In the space of days, longstanding banking giants were swept away. Only government bailouts prevented the entire financial system from melting down.

The post-crisis banking industry looks very different from the one that preceded it. Owing to tougher rules and tighter oversight, good governance and resilience restored trust in the banking sector. Long-term investors, such as pension funds and insurance companies, patiently endured years of expensive recovery before value was restored and dividends resumed. If the banks had gone, so, too, would those holdings, and most of today’s financial system with them.

The post-crisis era was marked by collective humility and acceptance of systemic risk. This was reflected in the Financial Stability Board’s recognition in 2015 of climate change as perhaps the greatest systemic threat of all.

Ten years later, however, our systems and processes remain ill-equipped to measure and manage the systemic risks posed by climate change. With the focus on climate issues slipping down investors’ agendas, this is a dangerous lapse. From broken supply chains and damaged assets to infrastructure shocks, public health crises, and community disruption, many businesses are already feeling the profound impact of climate change.

Nor is the problem confined to headline-grabbing disasters. Subtle and chronic effects are quietly eroding value, often in ways that our systems are ill-equipped to detect or manage. Once again, the fundamentals are not right.

Data from NASA substantiates this point. US satellites show that the intensity of extreme weather events is now double the average recorded in the 2003 and 2020 periods. This trend has tragic consequences for human well-being. In Africa, for example, 23 million people faced acute hunger in 2023, owing to record droughts.

The global economy is also taking a beating. Research by the World Economic Forum finds that weather-related damage to businesses, infrastructure, and other fixed assets may have almost tripled since 2000. The bill for the last decade topped two trillion dollars, with costs in 2022 and 2023 alone reaching 451 billion dollars.

Yet, rather than take steps to mitigate these risks, many investors, corporations, and governments continue to incentivise activities that compound them. Leading companies should battle to convince their boards and investors to buy into forward-looking strategies. Banks, the traditional stewards of opportunity, are struggling to manage lending risk associated with new and emerging technologies. The business case for preemptive resilience and innovation is not sufficiently clear to overcome the allure of the status quo. In other words, markets are getting things very wrong once again.

One exception is the insurance industry. Experts at pricing risk, these firms are learning fast. Between 2023 and 2024, climate-related disasters forced insurers to shell out 143 billion dollars in claims payments. More and more of them are doing the math and concluding that climate coverage simply does not add up. They should either hike premiums to exorbitant levels or exit the disaster-risk market altogether.

The latter scenario is all too likely. Günther Thallinger, a board member at the global insurer Allianz, recently warned that “entire regions are becoming uninsurable” as key asset classes degrade “in real time.” If markets have not realised this, that is because it takes time to work through the system.

The parallels to past crises are clear. Again, expressions of concern are being drowned out. This time, though, the stakes are higher, the effects are more widespread, and the consequences will be irreversible. The global economy has a massive blind spot, and unlike in 2008, there is no one on the winning side of the short bet. We all will lose.

Of course, there is a difference between a systemic blind spot and an ordinary one. We know the spot is there, but our financial system cannot address it until it is translated into monetary terms. For this, we need to mobilise executive action across the private sector to improve how we measure, manage, and respond to climate risks. Working with capital providers, standard setters, and policymakers, we need to align actionable information with the need to allocate capital toward climate-change mitigation and adaptation.

But having the numbers is not enough. To paraphrase Ernest Hemingway, climate collapse is a process that happens slowly, then all at once. Businesses and investors should create and maintain the capacity for rapid change within our organisations and across our value chains and spheres of influence. This starts with humility and acceptance of systemic risk.

The 2008 financial crisis shocked the world, demonstrating that nothing can be taken for granted. The stakes now are far higher, and there can be no bailouts. We must pursue pre-emptive action, and we do it immediately.

A Decade After Addis Abeba Pledges, Africa Faces Debt Strains, Dwindling Aid

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Ten years ago, Ethiopia hosted a major United Nations conference on financing for development, with global leaders gathering in Addis Abeba to sign what became known as the “Addis Abeba Action Agenda.” At the time, the agreement was viewed as a milestone, with many hoping it would attract substantial private investment and help countries achieve the Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs).

The talk focused on unlocking a flow of money, moving from “billions to trillions,” particularly for countries in the Global South.

But a decade later, the results have been mixed. The Addis Abeba agreement did not set off the expected wave of private capital. As the Global Policy Forum has pointed out, the agreement did achieve some progress, particularly in encouraging countries to focus on international tax cooperation and raising more revenue domestically. Still, for many African countries, including Ethiopia, the core problems of financing development persist.

Ethiopia’s own experience has mirrored these challenges, with the country facing a steep 30pc currency devaluation in July 2024 and heavy debt repayments, both of which have become familiar stories across the continent.

It was with a mix of urgency and scepticism that African leaders approached the Fourth International Conference on Financing for Development, which took place in Seville, Spain, from June 30 to July 3, 2025. Out of that meeting came a new agreement, known as the Compromiso de Sevilla, or the Seville Commitment. Kenya’s President William Ruto described it as “a renewed, if not hard-won, commitment to multilateralism and equitable development.”

The question now is what new tools African countries can use, based on the outcome document of Seville and its related Platform for Action, to improve their financial situation.

One of the biggest worries for African governments is the debt trap. In more than half of Africa’s countries, the cost of repaying debts is now greater than the amount spent on healthcare, according to calculations by the ONE Campaign, which used data from the World Bank, UNESCO, WHO, and IMF. Botswana’s Vice-President, Ndaba Gaolathe, called it “not just a debt crisis; it is a justice crisis.” The Seville agreement tries to address this problem in several ways.

First, it establishes a United Nations-led process to shift debt talks away from closed groups, such as the Paris Club, and into more inclusive UN forums. It also launches a Borrowers’ Forum under the United Nations Conference on Trade & Development (UNCTAD), which is meant to help countries negotiate together rather than separately. A Global Debt Registry, managed by the World Bank, will consolidate debt information from various sources to enhance transparency and accountability. The Platform for Action features a Global Hub for Debt Swaps for Development, backed by Spain with a three-million-euro investment, as well as a provision that enables countries to temporarily suspend debt payments during crises.

These steps may help resolve an old issue of creditors usually coordinating closely, while debtor countries are left to bargain alone.

The new Borrowers’ Forum could help African governments share ideas and strengthen their negotiating power. However, for many in Africa, these measures are insufficient. The Seville agreement fell short of establishing a legally binding process for debt relief, a goal many countries sought, particularly following the African Union (AU) Conference on Debt in May 2025.And while the agreement calls for increasing developing countries’ voting power in international financial institutions, this goal faces likely resistance from the current United States administration, which was not a signatory.

Central African Republic’s Finance Minister, Hervé Ndoba, underlined the issue when he said, “Africa, with its 1.5 billion residents, has the same voting rights as countries of fewer than 100 million.”

Another key issue is how credit rating agencies judge African economies. Many African leaders argue that these agencies, which include Moody’s and S&P, often exaggerate the risks of investing in Africa, which makes borrowing more expensive. Sierra Leone’s Chief Minister, David Moinina Sengeh, said that current ratings “frequently fail to reflect our reform trajectories.”

The AU has backed a homegrown alternative, the African Credit Rating Agency (ACRA), but the Seville Commitment goes further by creating annual meetings between countries, rating agencies, and regulators. The goal is to promote greater transparency in the rating decision process, require agencies to clearly explain their criteria, and ensure that progress on reforms is taken into account. While this does not solve the problem overnight, it gives African governments a seat at the table and an opportunity to demand greater accountability.

At the same time, Seville reaffirmed the need for countries to strengthen their own finances by boosting domestic revenue. Many African countries lose funds to illicit financial flows, which are money that is illegally transferred out of the continent. Nigeria’s Foreign Minister, Yusuf Tuggar, noted, “Illicit financial flows drain Africa of 88.6 billion dollars every year,” matching the total amount of official aid Africa receives, according to UNCTAD estimates.

The Compromiso de Sevilla includes a promise to double support for domestic resource mobilisation by 2030, with practical steps like improving e-filing systems, expanding the value-added tax, and modernising customs. It also maintains momentum behind the idea of a United Nations Tax Convention to combat tax avoidance by international companies. A new coalition has also been launched in Seville, with countries such as Kenya, Somalia, Benin, and Sierra Leone endorsing a plan to raise money by imposing a levy on premium air travel, with the proceeds to be used for combating climate change.

However, some gaps remain. Despite its potential to raise Africa’s GDP by USD 450 billion by 2035, the African Continental Free Trade Area Agreement (ACFTA) was not mentioned in the Seville document, missing an opportunity to connect a crucial African policy with global financing efforts.

Still, the Seville meeting introduced some new tools, including the Borrowers’ Forum, meetings with rating agencies, and more substantial support for generating additional revenue at home. These address real challenges, fragmented debtor groups, unclear credit ratings, and weak government finances, even if they fall short of more sweeping change. As Sierra Leone’s Vice-President, Mohamed Juldeh Jalloh, said, the real goal is to “shift the conversation from dependence to dignity.”

After a decade of big promises and slow progress, the challenge is to turn these new agreements into tangible results.

When Women Sidelined Economies Pay the Price

Posted on by Yeabkal

At a time when sustaining growth in low- and middle-income countries has become more difficult and uncertain, policymakers should pursue every available growth path. Ensuring that the skills and talents of roughly half the population are fully utilised is not only a matter of social justice but also a pragmatic economic strategy.

With protectionism and industrial policy returning to advanced economies, and with geopolitical tensions on the rise, this is an inauspicious moment for trade-led growth strategies. Since future growth will increasingly depend on sound domestic policies, low- and middle-income countries should focus on ensuring that existing resources are fully and efficiently deployed. And no resource is more valuable than human capital.

While economists and policymakers have long recognised the accumulation of human capital, particularly through investments in education, as a driver of growth and development, they have devoted far less attention to the efficient allocation of existing human capital. An economy at any level of development can achieve its full potential only if individuals pursue occupations that best suit their talents and preferences.

Eliminating, or at least reducing, misallocations of talent should therefore be a top priority. A growing body of economic research has shown that even in advanced economies such as the United States, reducing talent misallocation can have meaningful economic effects.

For example, an influential paper published a few years ago attributed 20pc 40pc of US per capita market output growth from 1960 to 2010 to improvement in talent allocation. This additional growth was achieved by reducing labour market discrimination against women and Black men, and by lowering the barriers these groups faced in developing human capital.

The potential to unlock such gains is probably even greater in less affluent countries, where the misallocation of talent is plausibly more pervasive. While the relevance of race or other identity-based barriers varies across contexts, gender is a universal issue. Because women comprise roughly half the population in any given country, ensuring that they can fully use their skills and talents could generate substantial economic returns.

It is well established that labour market outcomes vary significantly by gender. In most countries, women have lower labour-force participation rates and earnings, are overrepresented in unpaid or informal jobs, and spend more hours on household production and chores. If these differences reflected innate comparative advantages or genuine preferences, they would be efficient, and reallocating men and women to different activities would not improve an economy’s productivity. But if they reflect distortions, policymakers are leaving money on the table.

In a new study with the World Bank, my colleagues and I developed a methodology to distinguish between these two potential sources of observed differences and applied it using publicly available labour-force data from multiple countries. The results confirm the insights from the US study. Distortions are widespread. In many countries, removing barriers to women’s participation in the labour force could raise output by 15pc to 20pc, implying large income gains.

On average, richer countries exhibit fewer distortions. But the differences among countries at similar stages of development are striking. For example, Egypt could increase output by about 24pc by removing gender barriers, while Peru could achieve only a five percent gain, despite having similar income levels.

Comparing the evolution of distortions also reveals interesting patterns. While the allocation of talent in most countries has improved over time, there are exceptions. Despite rapid economic growth, India experienced little change in distortions between 1990 and 2022. As women remained excluded from high-productivity jobs, the economy grew less than it could have. Growth alone does not automatically guarantee equal opportunities; deliberate reforms are needed to unlock additional gains.

Our methodology also allows us to distinguish between two types of distortions. The “demand-side” barriers that come from employers (such as hiring discrimination or unequal pay), and “supply-side” barriers that reflect women’s own constraints (including household responsibilities, lack of childcare, safety concerns, or restrictive social norms).

For most countries, demand-side distortions play a more significant role than supply-side ones. Dismantling only the former generates economic gains nearly as large as those achieved by tackling both.

This result has important implications because it helps policymakers decide where to invest resources to reduce misallocation. Demand-side distortions, such as labour-market discrimination, are more amenable to policy intervention than supply-side distortions, which may reflect longstanding social norms. Thus, focusing on the former might allow countries to capture most of the welfare benefits from reducing gender-based misallocation.

Sceptics might argue that the economic gains from reducing talent misallocation are modest compared with those from productivity improvements. That may be true. But while productivity gains are often costly and increasingly uncertain in today’s volatile global environment, reducing the misallocation of human capital is relatively inexpensive and more easily achieved.

UN Never Meant to be Perfect. At 80, It Should Have Been Better

Posted on by Yeabkal

Eighty years after its founding, the United Nations (UN) finds itself at a difficult crossroads. It was set up in the ashes of a world war as a safeguard against disaster, a rules-based system strong enough to restrain the powerful and give voice to the weak.

Dag Hammarskjöld, one of its most respected secretaries-general, captured the spirit of the mission bluntly when he said the UN “was not created to take mankind to heaven, but to save humanity from hell.”

But by 2025, the standard for success in too many conflicts has dropped. Now, simply announcing a ceasefire is often treated as a victory, celebrated almost as if it were a genuine peace.

This shift signals more than a mere geopolitical pessimism. It shows that the world’s collective imagination of peace is shrinking. In places like Africa, and especially in the Horn of Africa, proxy rivalries and internal fractures are more visible than ever. Here, the ideals of principled and inclusive mediation through global organisations have been replaced by short-term deals that manage violence but do not resolve the underlying problems.

Against this backdrop, the United Nations at 80 should decide whether to reclaim political mediation as its purpose, or leave the field to fast deals and “performative” peace that barely touches the causes of war.

For decades, multilateral mediation had a reputation for being the “gold standard” of peacemaking. It was transparent, authentic, and fair, and, most importantly, accountable to collective bodies like the UN Security Council or, in Africa, the Peace & Security Council of the African Union (AU). Parties to conflicts could make their case without fear. Mediators were chosen by consensus and earned the trust of all parties. Neutrality was active and principled, not passive or indifferent.

A classic example of this approach was Namibia’s transition from 1978 to 1990. The United Nations supervised the process through steady reporting to the Security Council and a commitment to self-determination, while the UN Transition Assistance Group (UNTAG) closely monitored events on the ground. The result was a legitimate and accepted independence.

These early mediations primarily involved states, rather than internal factions. Governments could negotiate, enforce agreements, and deliver. Templates such as armistices, demilitarised zones, and peacekeeping missions often worked. Even when bilateral muscle made a difference, such as in the Egypt-Israel disengagements, the UN’s presence provided legitimacy and a universal frame for settlement.

By the late 1980s and into the 1990s, however, the nature of conflict underwent a significant shift. Civil wars became more common, lasting longer and involving deep identity divides, failed states, and external meddling. Mediation has become more complex, demanding greater patience and skill in building trust.

There are cases where multilateral efforts, often led by the UN, AU, or the Intergovernmental Authority on Development (IGAD), succeeded in forging difficult agreements. In Mozambique, the Rome General Peace Accords of 1992 ended a brutal civil war. In Sudan, the 2005 Comprehensive Peace Agreement brought together numerous actors to agree on new political arrangements, security structures, and wealth-sharing, paving the way for a monitored transition.

Even at its peak, however, multilateral mediation ran up against hard limits.

The conflict in Darfur from 2004 to 2008 exposed these boundaries. Fragmented rebel groups, a stubborn government, and outside powers working at cross-purposes undermined negotiations. The 2006 peace deal was seen as illegitimate by many.

The lesson was not that multilateralism could never work, but rather that mediation is always a political act, not a simple technical exercise. Success only comes when mediators tackle the root causes and power realities with craft and courage.

Today, the entire system built on multilateralism is under strain. Growing polarisation among both major and middle powers has weakened the Security Council’s authority.

In Africa, the once-promising Peace & Security Architecture has lost its momentum. The Horn of Africa now finds itself part of a broader “Red Sea Arena,” where wealthy Gulf monarchies, Israel, Türkiye, and Egypt throw their weight around with political budgets and security deals.

The new style of diplomacy is transactional in nature. Security pacts, patronage networks, and cash incentives create short periods of quiet at the expense of long-term legitimacy. The result is a fixation on ceasefires for their own sake.

Humanitarian pauses are negotiated and celebrated as though they were lasting solutions, while the hard work of political negotiation is postponed or ignored. Monitoring and verification mechanisms are thin.

In Sudan, which has faced renewed violence since April 2023, a flood of external mediation efforts, including the Jeddah talks, Egyptian initiatives, and AU/IGAD tracks, have mostly focused on achieving brief truces, which belligerents often use as opportunities to rearm and regroup.

The United Nations’ “New Agenda for Peace” recognises many of these problems. It names the dangers of proxy warfare, fragmented actors, and eroding norms. It calls for renewed focus on prevention, inclusion, and political solutions.

But the new agenda is mostly a diagnosis. Without political will and institutional courage, it risks becoming one more well-meaning document, a talking point in briefings, but not a game-changer in the field. The truth is that the model has reached its limits. The rise of complex conflicts, outside patronage, and the breakdown of old norms have outstripped the tools built for an earlier age.

If there is one lesson from the UN’s eight decades, it is that mediation is above all a political task. Technical steps such as ceasefire schedules, disarmament plans, or election timetables are important, but only if they serve a clear political strategy. The rise of “Track Two” efforts, backchannel talks and technical workshops, can be helpful for brainstorming and contact-building, but they become a problem when they substitute for political decision-making.

Former South African President Thabo Mbeki, who led mediation efforts in Sudan, argued that the mediator’s first job is to define the problem. Only by helping parties see their dispute as political, rather than as an identity or grievance, can mediators guide them to find common ground.

Political competence ­— knowing history, mapping power, and understanding when a “payroll peace” merely entrenches the war economy — is the vital skill for mediators. Recognising when a quick deal will fall apart due to a lack of legitimacy, and designing credible enforcement mechanisms, are essential.

Ultimately, societies themselves, not only their leaders, should be brought back into the political process, to restore respect for politics as the art of managing public affairs.

One challenge is that today’s mediators are often selected for their bureaucratic caution rather than political courage. Some avoid dealing with history and complexity. Others confuse neutrality with siding with the strongest party.

In Sudan, for example, rotating envoys and competing mediation formats have added to the confusion. In Somalia, anti-terror operations overshadowed the long-term coalition-building necessary for a political solution. A generation ago, the exclusion of the Islamic Courts movement from talks helped sow the seeds of continued insurgency.

Ethiopia, too, offers a warning about “performative” peace and the dangers of excluding key players from negotiations.

Mbeki’s point remains relevant that “Mediation is hard to initiate, harder to sustain, and hardest of all to implement.” Each stage requires political courage, strong institutional support, and patience for a process that moves slower than the news cycle.

Choosing, supporting, and protecting mediators with these qualities is not a luxury. It is the only real strategy.

Restoring effective multilateral mediation does not mean wishing for a return to a simpler, unipolar world. It means clarifying roles and rebuilding legitimacy where it matters most. Ceasefires should be seen as starting points, not endpoints. Robust monitoring, effective complaint systems, and sequenced confidence-building measures should lead the way to real political talks.

International and regional organisations, such as the UN, AU, and IGAD, should stop serving as messengers for short-term deals and instead anchor national dialogues in universal principles and inclusive processes. Where external financiers cannot be avoided, their involvement should be transparent, and subject to clear rules and verification.

Above all, mediators need to be chosen for their political skill, courage, and willingness to listen, not for their aversion to risk. Investing in the independence and training of mediators is essential.

Normative confidence should also be rebuilt. Prevention, human rights, humanitarian access, inclusion, and constitutional pathways are not luxuries. They are the load-bearing walls of lasting peace.

Hammarskjöld’s words are a sober guide for today’s unruly world. The United Nations was never meant to bring us to heaven. Its job is to keep us from hell, not by stacking up headlines about ceasefires, but by linking the end of violence to the beginning of legitimate politics.

The Horn of Africa offers a cautionary tale of how quickly “performative” peacemaking can devolve into negative peace and how easily norms are eroded when transactional logic prevails. However, it also demonstrates that with experience, strong institutions, and courageous mediators, change remains possible.

At 80, the UN faces a defining choice to be a bystander in the marketplace of politics, or to lead in forging political settlements. The outcome depends on whether international leadership can put politics back in charge, reject quick fixes, and insist that every ceasefire is a bridge to real, just, and lasting peace.

The Vanishing Sound of Joy

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A sound is vanishing from everyday life. Not the static of landline phones or the chime of notifications, but something far more vital, laughter.

Once it rippled through friendships, family gatherings, even holiday dinners. Now, conversations often collapse into complaints, politics, or endless news cycles. Humor, once a fixture, feels like it’s edging onto the endangered list.

For me, laughter is not trivial. It’s the highlight of my day. One reason I adore my husband, Mike, is his knack for cracking a joke in the middle of chaos, pulling me back from stress with a single well-timed line. It makes motherhood magical, especially now that my daughter has found her words. Her explanations of the world play like miniature comedy sets, the kind you don’t pay for but treasure forever.

Even in entertainment, comedy is my first stop. Not because I avoid the serious, but because I know how heavy life feels without balance. Yet lately, I’ve noticed something unsettling: laughter is growing rare in our social exchanges.

Everywhere you turn, people are serious. Serious about work, serious about news, serious about their social media feeds. Seriousness has its place, it keeps the world turning, but when it smothers humor, life becomes exhausting.

I feel it at gatherings. I walk in hoping for levity, only to leave drained by conversations that sound more like therapy sessions without the laughter at the end. Even holidays, once remembered for outrageous stories and family punchlines, now sag under the weight of complaints and debate.

Psychologists trace this shift to the barrage of bad news and online outrage. We carry that heaviness into living rooms and dinner tables. Without humor to cut through, every subject feels like another burden.

Science only confirms what instinct tells us: laughter heals. Studies show it relieves stress, boosts immunity, and lowers blood pressure. A good laugh floods the brain with endorphins, delivering the same natural high as exercise.

But beyond the science, laughter is glue. Couples who laugh together are more resilient. Families who joke together remember holidays not by the menu but by the stories retold and the laughter that shaped them into memories.

In my own marriage, humor is as foundational as love. We’ve laughed through burnt dinners, relentless workdays, and challenges heavy enough to weigh anyone down. Those shared laughs don’t just ease the moment, they preserve joy. For us, wisdom and humor are partners, and laughter threads them together.

Motherhood reshaped my relationship with humor in surprising ways.

On one hand, my daughter is my best comedian. Her timing, her innocence, and her hilariously logical misinterpretations can coax laughter from me even on the most draining evenings.

On the other hand, motherhood shrank my world. Outings are rare, and when I do find myself at a gathering, I crave lightheartedness. Too often, I come home instead feeling depleted. Without laughter, even company feels incomplete.

Modern life doesn’t always leave room for levity. News alerts pour in, social media rewards outrage, and even casual conversations are weighted by anxiety over politics, money, or social tension. The decline of face-to-face community life, sharpened by pandemic isolation, has only deepened the sense that joy is slipping through our hands.

We live in a culture that prizes outrage. Online, anger spreads faster than amusement. Even comedy itself has become a battlefield, dissected for offense rather than enjoyed for silliness. At parties, conversations spiral toward grievances. It’s not that these issues lack importance, they matter. But without humor, even justified concerns suffocate.

Instead of laughing, we hold our breath, worried humor will offend. The result is a culture where seriousness dominates and humor feels risky.

In such an environment, tension builds unchecked. Jokes are self-censored, smiles are subdued, and the relief laughter once offered evaporates. Without it, stress accumulates, creativity flattens, and human connection thins.

We forget that humor isn’t an accessory, it’s a survival tool. It helps us process the world, relieves stress, and bridges differences. When joy is overshadowed by fear, resilience falters. The human spirit shrinks under its own caution.

Then there’s exhaustion. Inflation, politics, crises, people are tired. Laughter takes energy, and fatigue makes it easy to let joy slide.

Some argue humor trivialises pain. History proves the opposite. Soldiers joked in trenches. Communities in hardship swapped stories to endure. Humor doesn’t erase suffering, it equips us to bear it.

Shunning laughter doesn’t make us nobler. It just makes us wearier. Humor is not the opposite of seriousness; it’s the companion that keeps seriousness from crushing us.

A laugh is a quiet act of resilience. It acknowledges the world’s weight without surrendering to it. When we laugh, we carve out a moment of relief, a pause in the relentlessness. Humor sharpens perspective, exposing absurdity in despair and possibility in hardship.

Laughter is also a bridge. It connects across divides, sparks empathy, and restores humanity. A shared joke can ease grief, soften conflict, and remind us of solidarity. For communities worn thin by hardship, humor is a declaration: dignity and joy can survive.

At its core, laughter is the pulse of life. It cuts through despair, reconnects us to the present, and leaves space for hope. Every giggle or chuckle is a small rebellion, a refusal to let heaviness win.

Laughter preserves our humanity. In every shared smile, we assert that life’s burdens will not crush us. Even in struggle, joy is still possible.

Fear, Fines, and Forced Obedience

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The question of how to make people follow rules has always fascinated me. Governments and societies have wrestled with it for centuries. We often hope that citizens obey laws out of civic duty or fear of social consequences, but reality is rarely so tidy. Many legal systems lean on modest financial penalties, yet these often fall flat. For determined offenders, a fine is simply the cost of doing business. But the equation changes when the penalty stops being a fee and starts becoming a devastating financial threat. Suddenly, compliance is no longer optional. I learned this the hard way one afternoon in Addis Abeba.

The theory is straightforward, the punishment must outweigh the reward. A driver rushing through traffic may weigh the inconvenience of a speeding ticket against the benefit of saving time and decide the risk is worth it. In that case, the law is not a deterrent, it’s just another variable in their personal cost-benefit equation. But when a fine is so high it threatens someone’s livelihood, their savings, even their long-term stability, the calculus shifts. It stops being about convenience and becomes about survival.

I saw this principle unfold right in front of me at Megnagna, a major junction where taxis stream in from Kotebe, Yeka Abado, and other neighborhoods. I needed to get a taxi to 6 Kilo. Normally, that’s not a problem, drivers in Addis are masters of improvisation, always ready to squeeze out a fare. But to my shock, taxi after taxi refused me. The refusals weren’t the usual excuses or haggling tactics. This was a wall of polite but firm no’s, a level of united defiance that felt out of character.

Perplexed, I finally asked a taxi assistant what was going on. His answer floored me, there was a fine of 20,000 Br for drivers caught taking that particular route. To put it bluntly, it was financial suicide. No driver could afford to gamble with such a penalty. Overnight, the city had achieved total compliance not through goodwill or civic discipline, but by dangling the threat of economic ruin.

Compare this with speeding. Everyone knows it’s dangerous; there are fines in place, yet people still do it every day. Why? Because a speeding ticket is a nuisance, not a catastrophe. You pay, grumble, and keep driving as before. But a 20,000 Br fine? That’s not just a punishment, it’s a life-altering blow. It doesn’t invite negotiation or risk-taking. It shuts the door on disobedience entirely.

And here lies the irony. The rule itself struck me as absurd, forcing passengers to trek long distances when taxis were right there, engines idling. The city seemed more invested in enforcing this inconvenient route restriction than tackling far more serious violations that threaten public safety. It revealed something uncomfortable, the effectiveness of a fine has little to do with the logic of the rule it enforces. The instrument is powerful, even when the policy is questionable.

For all their ingenuity, taxi drivers had been reduced to perfect rule-followers, not by persuasion or civic loyalty, but by sheer fear of financial collapse. That afternoon taught me an unambiguous lesson, if you want laws obeyed, make the price of breaking them unbearable. It may feel blunt, even unjust, but it works. Human beings may resist appeals to reason or duty, but when the cost of defiance carries the shadow of ruin, obedience follows without hesitation.

36.6

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The ratio of Ethiopia’s debt service to exports in 2025, which had exploded from 5.6pc the year before, partly caused by a one billion Eurobond default and the maturing of external debt by state-owned enterprises at the same time. The World Bank and IMF consider ratios above 10pc as high-risk for low-income countries.

THE PRICE OF PLAY Football, privatisation, and the battle for turf in Addis Abeba

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On a crisp weekday morning at Friendship Park, nestled along Taitu Street, Awel Hamza stood hunched over, hands resting on his knees after a spirited two-hour football match. A school-bus driver by profession, Awel has been lacing up his boots at this riverside venue twice a week for the past year, part of a 20-strong team that traded the city’s dusty lots for synthetic turf installed under a government-led “castle” park project.

“This field is nice and comfortable,” he said, still catching his breath. “But it’s not perfect.”

Comfort, it turns out, comes at a cost, one that displayed the quiet but seismic shift underway in the capital’s recreational landscape, where football fields have evolved from free public spaces into monetised zones of privilege and profit.

At Friendship Park, booking and payment run entirely through Telebirr, the state-owned mobile-money platform. Each player in Awel’s group pays 5,000 Br for a six-month membership that covers parking. Together, the team shells out 12,000 Br a month, or 72,000 Br over the contract period. That sum buys two sessions a week, but the arrangement exposes a nagging problem of upkeep that players encounter repeatedly.

“Most fields face the same issues,” Awel said last week, trying to catch his breath. “The grass gets old, the ground uneven, the nets tear. At Friendship Park, there are no showers, and cleanliness in the morning is poor. Some of us go straight to work after games. It’s tough without showers.”

Waiting outside the fence for his team’s turn, gym owner and car dealer Yosef Kassay nodded along. Friendship Park is his first field, where he has been coming for more than six months.

“I love the park,” he said. “I’m not leaving.”

Yosef echoed complaints about maintenance and the lack of showers, even as he and his 18 teammates divide the same monthly fee. Running the Park’s four pitches is no casual affair.

However, demand is heaviest in the cool morning and late-afternoon windows when long-term members arrive. Weekends are tighter, and pricier. A two-hour block costs 1,800 Br on weekdays and 2,250 Br on weekends for a team of up to 18 people. Most squads lock in six-month packages, costing 46,800 Br if they play on weekdays or 58,500 Br if they insist on weekend slots.

“We rarely get complaints about the price,” said Derbew Awoke, the sports coordinator who has supervised the operation for three years. “What we hear is about shade, showers, benches, and things outside the turf itself.”

Rules are strict. No food or drinks are allowed on the grass, and jerseys are required. In exchange, players skip the Park’s 100 Br entrance fee and pay a capped 50 Br for parking.

The model has migrated far beyond public parks. Schools and colleges, squeezed for funding, now view their grounds as revenue sources. Nifas Silk Polytechnic College in the city’s southwest leased its field to a private partner under a five-year deal.

“After the contract, the field returns to us with improvements,” said Shelema Nigusu, dean of the School.

The arrangement provides staff with exercise space, the contractor with a steady business, and the College with 25,000 Br per month in rental income. Flush with the cash and lessons learned, the College recently spent more than two million Birr to build a second pitch of its own.

“It wasn’t easy or cheap,” Shelema told Fortune, “but the outcome is worth it.”

Players, including Nathan Amanuel, a 24-year-old software engineering student at Addis Ababa University, flocked to the new surface. He has been renting the Nifas Silk pitch for six months, paying 16,000 Br per month for four sessions, each lasting two hours. With more than 22 regulars, the cost works out to about 200 Br per person per match, still a bargain compared to the city’s nightlife. However, Nathan’s chief gripe is availability.

“The prime slots, six to eight in the morning, eight to ten in the night, or six to eight in the evening, are rarely open,” he said.

Nathan’s interest runs deeper than recreation. He and his family explored building their own field after spotting returns in the business. But, according to his estimates, putting down a quality field costs over 1.6 million Br.

“It’s a big investment, but the returns are attractive,” he told Fortune. “The problem is access, as a few investors own most fields, some holding two or three. It’s tough for newcomers. We tried, but the bureaucracy of the owners makes it hard.”

Veterans of Addis Abeba’s weekend leagues recognise the shift. Yohannes Melese, a computer science graduate working in his family’s construction firm, has been renting pitches for over five years. He used to play on dirt lots that turned muddy when it rained.

“The artificial-grass fields are better and drain well, but after a while the turf gets slippery, the ground uneven, and the nets fall apart,” he said.

City officials say they see both the opportunity and the pitfalls in the privatisation of recreational sports fields.

Berhanu Bayu is the head of the Directorate of Sport Place Development & Administration at the Addis Ababa Youth & Sport Bureau. His office is tasked with providing technical support to schools and parks that host pitches, setting prices for facilities under its direct supervision, and ensuring that communities still have a fair chance of booking time.

“When institutions outsource management, they sometimes auction contracts to whoever bids the highest,” Berhanu told Fortune. “The person who develops the field may overcharge users. Pricing must be fair for society. Institutions should work with us to create safe and affordable environments.”

The Bureau tries to balance surging demand with wear and tear.

“Artificial grass lasts longer, and we’re expanding access,” he said. “But fields need rest. Communities have to treat them as shared property if we want them to last.”

Economists see broader fault lines. Mustofa Abdella, a consultant at Zafer Plus Business & Investment Consultancy, is one of those who argue that steep fees can push out the very young people the facilities are meant to serve.

“Geographic bias clusters fields in certain neighbourhoods, and prime-time slots favour those who can pay,” he said. “It defeats the purpose.”

Maintenance, Mustofa contended, is where both private managers and regulators stumble. He recommended written service standards, weekly inspections and formal feedback systems. For him, it is about professionalism and responsiveness. Tiered rates could widen access, discounts for students and the unemployed, off-peak pricing or hours subsidised by government and nonprofits. Youth groups might trade maintenance work for playing time, sharing responsibility along the way.

“The model should be collaborative,” said Mustofa. “Government can provide land; investors bring capital and expertise.”

Schools can open fields after hours, and franchise systems could help the concept scale. Corporate sponsors might cover costs. But community involvement ensures facilities meet local needs. The payoff, he added, is not strictly financial.

“These fields keep young people engaged, improve health, create jobs, generate taxes, and even shape urban planning,” he said. “They also promote cohesion, bringing people together across divides.’

However, for some, they serve as a stepping-stone to professional careers. According to Mustafa, the business stays viable only if it also serves social goals.

Knives Out in Markets as Ritual Meets Retail

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On the eve of the Ethiopian New Year, Shola Market in Addis Abeba turns into a vortex of commerce and tradition. The pungent mix of hay, eucalyptus smoke, and blood signals not only the season’s frenzy but also an economic shift reshaping how urban households handle ritual poultry slaughter. The once-private act of killing and dressing a chicken has moved decisively into public markets, creating both a livelihood for butchers and a public-health dilemma for regulators.

At the centre of this transformation are men like Yohannes Misganaw, 27, who now processes up to 200 chickens a day at 100 Br apiece, with customers bringing their own birds. Demand surges around the New Year and Easter, but even ordinary weekdays are marked by long queues. Labour charges push household poultry costs above 1,500 Br, yet customers continue to come, citing convenience, hygiene, or simply the lack of space and skill at home.

Vendors bellowed “Discounts Here!” while shoppers, eyes on bargains, threaded through the chaos. The loudest lane was lined with cages jammed with flapping chickens, the season’s true business. At the gate, a boy flourished a knife.

“Sharp blades for the New Year!” he cried, his pitch drowned by clucks and bargaining.

Inside, birds met their end on plastic tarps. Feathers and blood streaked the ground in red and white. One of the men working the blades was Yohannes, who had been the family butcher for a long time. He turned the skill into a trade four years ago after learning at his mother’s side.

“Now it’s surprising how many bring their chickens here instead of doing it at home,” he told Fortune.

Yohannes sells birds of his own, yet most of the roughly 200 he handles daily belong to customers who hire him for the 100 Br service. With a friend, he figured they process about three-quarters of the chickens in their corner of the market. A chicken that once carried only a purchase price now picks up labour charges, which push the final bill to between 1,500 Br and 2,000 Br, depending on the size.

Urban families spare cramped kitchens the mess and smell. Older shoppers arrive with warm greetings or even small toasts of gratitude. Younger ones bring curiosity or doubt.

Yohannes pressed a wing under his boot and brought down the knife in one swift motion. Within seconds, the carcass lay in 12 neat pieces. He knotted the bag and handed it to a customer who vanished into the crowd. Wiping the blade on a rag stained crimson, he scanned the line still snaking toward his table. Tradition, he knew, was shifting under his feet, but demand had never been stronger.

“Customers are confused watching us, but some even ask if I can train their children. Everyone should know how to slaughter at home.”

A few, he laughed, have told him they “should have married” him, likely a dig at husbands unwilling to wield the knife. He and his partner clean up after themselves, rinsing tarps and sweeping feathers, then hauling the waste to municipal dumps at their own expense. Still, the stigma lingers.

“It’s honest work,” he said, “but people don’t always see it that way.”

Older patrons occasionally produce a small bottle of tej, honey wine, for an impromptu toast to the butchers who save them the trouble of feather-plucking at home. Children watch the rhythmic slicing, their parents asking Yohannes to explain the 12-part cut so age-old skills are not lost.

Waiting for her turn with two children, Ateref Tenaw saw the service as essential. She paid 2,000 Br for the chicken, tipped Yohannes 200, and frowned at the splattered tarp.

“He does well,” she said. “But the environment could be cleaner. We need healthy conditions.”

Public-health experts echo her worry.

“Meat and milk are sensitive,” said Asayehegn Tekeste, a health specialist. “The person doing the slaughtering should be medically cleared, and the environment poses risks.”

He warned of dead chickens passed off as fresh and the slow build of an outbreak.

“The risk is not daily, but trends can build,” he told Fortune. “A health check every six months should be mandatory.”

Across town at Qera Market, Segni Gemechis, 30, lives by the same trade. Festival eves see him dispatching more than a hundred birds at 100 Br apiece, with tips often lifting the fee to 150.

“People are adapting this service,” Segni said, a knife flashing in sunlight. “It’s not only business, it helps families.”

Customers now appear even on ordinary days, although the New Year and Easter remain peak periods. “There’s no real difference between doing it at home or here,” he added, wiping his blade clean.

Even supermarkets that once prided themselves on imported fare now stock local chickens, cleaned and quartered.

Getahun Abate spent over a decade in the domestic retail industry. He is now the operations manager for Lewis Retailer, formerly Bambis. He saw that demand for chicken had increased remarkably, compared to years ago when local “Habesha” breed chickens were not common on supermarket shelves.

“Now they’re fully prepared in different cuts,” said Getahun. “Customers prefer the convenience. Celebrations still drive spikes, but the system has changed. People want ready and safe products.”

Regulation trails the market, with health inspectors making annual rounds, confiscating spoiled produce and warning vendors lacking certificates, yet enforcement is uneven. After touring several markets, Worknesh Birqe, communications director of the Addis Abeba Food & Drug Authority, was blunt.

“We don’t have a specific law to control this,” she admitted.

Officials scramble to keep up. In the week leading up to the holiday, the Authority deployed teams to major markets, inspecting butter, honey, meat, and dairy, and removing spoiled vegetables. Vendors without proper certificates were warned, but a limited workforce meant follow-up was scarce.

Shrinking kitchens and packed schedules have turned market slaughtering into a fixture in Addis Ababa. However, health officials warn that convenience should not come at the expense of safety.

“We can’t say it’s safe without oversight,” Asayehegn said. “Regulation is essential and even if laws don’t yet exist, the discussion must begin.”