Traders Count the Cost as Officials Sweep Through Mercato

Oct 18 , 2025. By YITBAREK GETACHEW ( FORTUNE STAFF WRITER )

In the pre-dawn hours last week, Mercato, usually abuzz with activities, witnessed not the rise of a trading day but the dislocation of livelihoods. The Addis Abeba City Administration’s latest crackdown on roadside vendors took brutal form around Mierab Hotel, where traders, many with tax receipts in hand, were ordered to vacate with barely three days' notice, reports YITBAREK GETACHEW, Fortune Staff Writer.

Last Tuesday, long before dawn, Mercato was awake but not to haggle. Around Mierab Hotel, traders pulled down stalls, stacked timber on Isuzu trucks and pickups, while sawdust and sweat hung in the air. Uniformed police and municipal officers barked a single order, "leave immediately."

For decades, this part of the largest open-air market has sold clothes, pots, pans and almost everything in between. By noon, the chatter had been replaced by a stunned quiet. Shoppers watched as traders, tax receipts clutched in their hands, asked local officials the same question.

“Where are we supposed to go?”

They heard the same reply.

“We gave you notice.”

City officials claim the clear-out is one step in a long effort to remake Addis Abeba’s informal economy. For stall-holders on the asphalt, it felt like an abrupt eviction from livelihoods they spent years building.

Among those shoved out was Fekede Erejito. He once sold newspapers but, three years ago, joined a government support scheme and began trading household goods. He pays 8,000 Br monthly rent for a house where he lives with two relatives. On Tuesday, he stood by the skeleton of his stall, gripping a folded receipt. He had thought this proved that he had “done everything by the book”.

“Everything will come to an uncontrollable situation for me,” he said, pausing for breath. “They told us on Saturday. It's shocking.”

Fekede paid 20,000 Br a year in taxes, recently trimmed by 2,000 Br as sales slipped. He insisted that he could have planned if alerted much earlier. With barely a few days' notice, the future remained blank for him.

“After this, I don't expect anything,” he said. “I won’t get my customers again. No one can find a shop around here.”

Cheap rent has been his lifeline. Anything pricier, he feared, would sever the clientele he had cultivated and sink him.

For Diriba Gemechu, the order cut deeper. The father of three, in recovery from addiction, credits trading for his return to stability. When officers arrived, he felt his past clawing back.

“After this, sometimes I can’t even sell,” he murmured. “I just stand here thinking about where to go next.”

Diriba’s annual tax bill is 25,000 Br, up 4,500 Br from last year, and he cannot afford idleness.

“I've children; they must eat,” he said. “If I don’t find something soon, life will become very hard. If I don’t find work, I’ll fall back.”

The city administration's new “corridor standards”, rules that dictate who may trade where, strike Diriba as a recipe for inequality. The Mayor, Adanech Abiebie, told the city council last week that no new “corridor works” would start this fiscal year, with attention diverted to housing and water.

“Who among us can pay 100,000 Br rent?” he asked. “Even 20,000 Br is rare. These new places are for the rich.”

Another trader, who asked not to be named, faces the same ordeal. A father of five from Goro, he pays 4,000 Br rent and 3,000 Br in school fees for his daughters. He began as a street vendor six years ago before becoming a licensed trader through a city programme.

“We're now told to leave in three days,” he said. “If not, they will confiscate our goods.”

He earns about 1,000 Br a day, enough for food and rent, rarely more. When rumours of demolition surfaced, he began saving, but the official order only landed last weekend. His meagre reserve may barely cover transport.

“They must talk to us,” he said. “We are taxpayers, not criminals.”

On his phone, he scrolled through receipts showing 24,000 Br paid this year alone.

“If I had a week, I could sell my goods at a discount,” he said. “But now I can’t. There was no information at all.”

From the other side of the bureaucracy, the operation looks straightforward. Roadside stalls clog pavements and blur accountability. Officials believe that formalising them could boost revenue and safety. City officials imagine tidy corridors. However, on the streets of Addis Abeba, their vision has translated to uncertainty, loss and the faint silence of a market that once fed thousands.

“Those merchants got temporary licences and started work,” said Ashenafi Birhanu, communications director for the Addis Abeba Trade Bureau. “We’re identifying who must become formal traders.”

To qualify, a vendor is required to show a residence ID, proof of unemployment and a taxpayer number. Anyone earning more than 200,000 Br within two years should upgrade to a standard shop or quit the spot. Progress, officials insist, is measurable. No less than 985 traders have already regularised, and more than 11,000 have gone under assessment. Close to 550 are being shifted to designated sites, and 227 new trading areas have been prepared.

“No one can trade on the road once sites are identified,” Ashenafi said. “Every district is implementing this.”

The policy is blunt in that capital-rich traders move up; others keep temporary stalls. Back in March, the head of the Trade Bureau, Habiba Siraj, told media and traders the rules would tidy streets, improve safety and shore up revenue. About 8,000 vendors were then on the books. Today, the figure exceeds 11,000.

Addis Ketema District alone has formalised more than 800 sellers; another 900 across 21 sites wait for relocation. Officials argue that the real barrier is money, not forewarning.

“It isn't about time, it is about capital,” Ashenafi told Fortune. “If they can’t meet the requirement, they have two years.”

According to Ashenafi, the Bureau spent six months on awareness drives, counting more than 11,000 informal traders seeking space.

“It’s a challenge, but we’re working with other agencies,” he told Fortune.

Sani Tuke Jonja, an international trade consultant and founder of Optimum Logistics, who studied development economics and economics, sees both the logic and the peril. Formalisation, he believes, can curb contraband and widen legitimate opportunity.

“It’s a good idea to get used to things you don’t know,” he said. “But those who’ve been evacuated will face challenges next.”

Move a trader, he argued, and it can take months to regain visibility and trust. For small operators, those new burdens, such as rent, tax, and regulatory hoops, may prove disastrous. First, they sold from small shelters; then they were evacuated. Now they’re expected to rent buildings.

“People here don’t adapt quickly," he told Fortune. "It takes time, and it takes capital.”

Aychiluhim Kebede, vice-president of the Addis Chamber of Commerce & Sectoral Association, agrees that bringing traders into the formal fold is economically sound, but pleads for patience. He conceded that the transformation from an informal to a formal economy is necessary.

“But it must be gradual," he told Fortune. "These people lack capital and face inflation. The process must not destroy what little they’ve built.”

Aychiluhim is lobbying city officials for less costly premises.

Sani worried the momentum could now stall. He lists the obstacles, including no affordable shops, rising taxes, shrinking income, cash shortages, and no bank loans. Moving kills momentum. Access to credit, he notes, has grown “rare”, removing a bridge that might help a stall-holder graduate to a rented store.

“Demand will drop,” he warned. “Rents are high, and people are spending less. Many will go out of business. Someone used to selling from a stall can’t suddenly rent a building. He has no experience.”

Repeated corridor projects and sudden dispossessions have already pushed many businesses off the main roads.

“You can’t fix a system by campaign,” said Sani. “It needs structured discussion.”

Mercato’s logic, entire blocks specialising in single goods, magnifies the disruption. If one sells corn or potatoes, customers expect to find them in the same place. When that link breaks, the market loses coherence. And most traders have little idea which laws bind them.

“They don’t read regulations,” he said. “When something happens, they don’t approach higher officials. They try to solve it themselves on the street.”

Sani wants to see robust dialogue between associations and district officials, and traders better armed with knowledge.

“Revenue agencies should follow guidelines,” he said. “Traders must ask questions. They should not be surprised by policies that affect their lives.”

Without such transparency, he fears, many will vanish from the formal map.

“Now, many are leaving the market,” he said. “Some will return to contraband. Prices will keep rising unless something changes.”

As the dust settles across Mercato’s pavements, one truth remains that progress moves unevenly, clearing a path for some while leaving others stranded at the kerb.

PUBLISHED ON Oct 18,2025 [ VOL 26 , NO 1329]