Tsiriha Biru, 45, had never imagined that her rhythm of life in Adissu Gebeya, a northern Addis Abeba market hub she had known for three decades, could be broken in a single July afternoon. The mother of four paid less than 100 Br a year for a modest public (Kebele) house and counted on familiar neighbours.

Last summer, a city notice told her and 60 other families that the Addis Abeba’s riverside development project would "transform" their neighbourhood. Wereda officials offered two pathways. Stay in similar low-rent public housing or move into a government-built condominium with a sizable down payment. Tsiriha found the choice nothing but a dilemma.

“The houses for low-rent tenants were already occupied,” she recalled. “We're all pushed into condominiums, whether we like it or not.”

She has been living in a one-bedroom unit at Bole Arabsa Condominium Site 3 for seven months without a lease. Her only concern is a required prepayment of 120,000 Br, which is well beyond her means.

“I never wanted to move into a condominium,” she told Fortune.

She relies on what is left of the 85,000 Br the city paid her for transport costs and “emotional hardship.” The money is nearly gone, and a June 7 deadline looms.

“If I could borrow the rest, I’d pay,” she said. “If not, the street will be our home — me and my children.”

Stories like hers echo across the capital as the city authorities press for a redevelopment that is determined to overhaul Addis Abeba's identity. For many who support the project, the city is going through "a remarkable transformation;" for others, it is "losing its soul."

The corridor development project, as it is officially christened, was unveiled by the city administration in February last year. It set out to tear through dense neighbourhoods, replace ageing public rentals, mostly made of mud and tin roofs, with condominiums and re-engineer transport arteries that choke the capital each rush hour. Phase one ran 48Km through Piassa, Arat Kilo, Bole, Megenagna, Mexico and CMC areas, costing the city administration 33 billion Br. It relocated about 11,000 people.

The latest push to modernise the streets promised wide boulevards, better drainage and fresh housing blocks. But, it has also trapped thousands of its longtime residents in financial limbo.

Residents, many paying token rents under the public housing system, were told they could continue as low-cost tenants or buy a flat under the city’s mortgage program where the banks loan 80pc of the equity, after the balance is deposited upfront. In reality, say former tenants, the rentals were full, and officials pressed everyone toward buying condos that millions of low-income Addis Abebans barely imagine covering.

The second phase, now underway, is larger, stretching 132Km across 2,817hct, sweeping Casanchis, Aware and five other districts into the bulldozer’s path. Crowded lanes of sheet-metal shacks and mom-and-pop kiosks have given way to raw earth and half-poured pillars.

According to Tomas Debele, deputy director general of the Addis Abeba Housing Development Corporation, nearly 9,000 units — some for rent, most for sale — were handed over across both phases, but more than 4,000 households have yet to sign sales documents. The Corporation has imposed a deadline of June 7, 2025.

“The residents were given enough time,” Tomas said. “They're now obliged to sign the contract.”

If they fail, he warns, the Corporation may add interest charges on the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia (CBE) loans that financed construction and, in severe cases, repossess apartments.

“These houses were built using borrowed money from CBE through bond sales,” he said. “We expect to return up to two billion Birr from this. That's what is at stake.”

For many families, the sums look impossible. Tenants forced from kebele blocks received compensation, usually 85,000 Br for moving expenses and “emotional hardship.” Like Tsiriha, they have to raise an additional 120,000 Br to satisfy the 20pc deposit. The corridor program let families occupy flats before paying, a break from earlier condominium lotteries that required the advance first. What was intended as flexibility has turned into a mountain of unpaid balances and a second eviction threat.

No one feels that squeeze more sharply than Yitbarek Zegeye, 25, who lives in the same compound as Tsiriha in Bole Arabsa.

He remembers how swiftly the wreckers tore down his parents’ house near Shola, three days after the first notice. The shock triggered a health crisis for his mother, and much of the family’s payout went to hospital bills.

“She never fully recovered,” he told Fortune.

They chose a condominium, yet the required down payment now looks unreachable.

A similar story echoes a few blocks away.

During the project's first phase, Dawit Gebreyesus, a carpenter and father of three, was uprooted from Piassa’s Serategna Sefer. He rented near his old neighbourhood to make his children finish the school term, burning through his compensation. When he finally received keys to a unit in the same Bole Arabsa cluster, he found bare concrete walls, no wiring, plumbing or doors.

“I spent what little I had left to make it inhabitable,” he said.