The many layers of Addis

Who builds a city? Oftentimes, the answer to this question depends on whom you ask. If you ask an urban planner, they might point to maps, masterplans, or speak of infrastructure and development. But if you ask someone who walks its streets, lives in its narrow alleyways, prays in its corners, or sells fruit at its crossroads, you’ll hear a different story. A city isn’t just drawn into being by those in power—it’s shaped by the people who live in it, challenge it, bend it to their needs, and, sometimes, simply refuse to be moved. 

Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, is such a city. It carries the marks of rulers who dreamed of empire, of colonisers who disrupted the organic order, of revolutionaries who renamed spaces, and of citizens who, every day, remake it on their own terms. Its streets are both wide and narrow, its skyline uneven, its air dry and restless. At its centre lies not a single plan, but a tangle of desires: to control, to impress, to belong. 

The story begins over a century ago, with Emperor Menelik II. When he declared Addis Ababa the capital in the late 1800s, he envisioned more than a seat of government—he imagined a heart for a rising empire. The hills of Entoto gave way to the flatter ground of Addis, where eucalyptus trees were planted, and palaces and churches began to rise. Construction buzzed with ambition. Among those shaping the city’s early buildings was Wole Mohammed, a traditional architect and a devout Muslim. He would pause during his work to pray, sometimes in view of the church under construction. This, it is said, unsettled high officials like Fitawrari Habtegiorgis, who declared, “I don’t want to see a Muslim praying.” 

Menelik’s response was both political and spatial: he gave Wole a nearby place to pray—out of sight, in a lower spot near the palace. And so, Wole’s small mosque was built in the shadow of the rising Gabriel Church. In that moment, a compromise was struck. But it was also a message. Architecture here was not just about function or form—it was about hierarchy, visibility, sacrifice. 

Architecture here was not just function or form—it was hierarchy, visibility, sacrifice.  

Later, when the Italians invaded in the 1930s, they brought their own vision. The market that had grown organically in Piassa—chaotic, lively, and close to the palace—was seen as too messy. They pushed it west, designing a new commercial zone with neat grids and controlled order. This is how Merkato, now one of Africa’s largest open-air markets, was born—not out of planning for the people, but for power. What was meant to be a cage of control became, over time, a pulse of resistance—expanding, changing, and refusing to be tamed. 

Haile Selassie came next, seeking to modernise Addis. He built wide avenues, elegant schools, and state buildings to show the world that Ethiopia was not behind. It was a city of emperors, not Askaris. Of African pride, not colonial leftovers. Yet still, these projects—though grand—were symbols meant more for foreign eyes than for the everyday lives of his people. 

Then came the Derg, the socialist regime that swept away the monarchy. They renamed Meskel Square as Revolution Square, transforming it into a grand stage for parades, propaganda, and the performance of state power. Across the city, blocky, uniform socialist apartments and stark villas emerged—architectural expressions of an imagined classless society. But the promised equality remained elusive, hidden behind walls of sameness. 

Later, the EPRDF rose, inheriting the stage but rewriting the script. They rebranded the space once again. Just steps away from the former Revolution Square, they built the Red Terror Martyrs Memorial Museum. A cold, stone structure, heavy with memory. It doesn’t just commemorate the victims of the Derg—it stands in quiet confrontation with the square that once killed them. The juxtaposition is almost theatrical: a place where power was once cheered, now shadowed by a place that mourns its cost. Architecture here becomes a dialogue. 

The EPRDF, while pursuing their own vision through the developmental state model, often used similar tactics—centralised control, sweeping construction, and symbolic structures. Their electric rail system, hailed as a modern achievement, sliced through historic quarters. One of its unintended casualties was the visual dignity of Ras Birru’s house—now the Addis Ababa Museum—its once-proud silhouette broken by steel and concrete, casting the shadows of progress. Each regime added a layer to the city’s skin—some trying to modernise, others to moralise. But all sought to shape how Addis should be seen, both from within and from afar. And yet, even as leaders crafted spaces to reflect their ideologies, people continued to reshape the city in quiet, ordinary ways. 

And yet, even as leaders crafted spaces to reflect their ideologies, people continued to reshape the city in quiet, ordinary ways.  

The same story continues today as the Prosperity party grabs hold of the paintbrush and begins colouring the canvas which is Ethiopia’s ever-changing capital. 

Walk through Sheger Park—Addis’s newest crown jewel—and you’ll see a different image of the city. Clean-cut paths wind through water fountains that dance to music. Families take selfies under flowering trees. 

There are cafés, play areas, and tidy grass that seems to belong more to a postcard than to the city’s lived history. 

But not everyone fits this picture. 

For rural migrants, who have come to Addis in search of work or a better life, the park is both dazzling and distant. Some come to rest on its edges or cool their feet in the water. Others sell water bottles or roasted seeds outside the gates. The park wasn’t built for them—but they find a way to claim it, in the same quiet resistance that has always lived in Addis. They, too, become part of the city’s fabric. 

Here, space becomes a language. A way of saying who matters, who is welcome, and who should stay invisible. 

And so, what does it mean to look at Addis—to really see it? 

There is a gaze that looks at the city from above: planners, investors, regimes. They design, build, name, and announce. And then there is the gaze from below: residents, migrants, informal workers, street vendors—those who use the city differently than intended. These two ways of seeing often clash. As Sartre once wrote, the gaze is never neutral. To look is to judge, to include, to exclude. 

In Addis, architecture has always been more than concrete. It has been about power—about how rulers imagine themselves and want to be seen by others. But equally, it has been about resistance—about how people live, adapt, and bend space to their needs. From Wole Mohammed’s prayer corner to the ever-growing sprawl of Merkato, from Revolution Square to Sheger Park, the city has always been a negotiation. 

In the end, Addis Ababa is not a finished project. It is not just what you see on a map or in a skyline. It is a living, breathing conversation—between power and people, between past and future, between visibility and resistance. And it continues to grow, in ways that no plan could ever fully contain.