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.