Of flooded streets and road management

On a recent anniversary, I found myself at the Sheraton Addis, seated on the veranda of its Jade Asian Restaurant, just steps from the pool. The moment we stepped out, a chill gripped us. The air was sharp with cold; the breeze off the water cut deeper still. We began to wonder how we could possibly enjoy the evening in such weather. Indoors would have been warmer, but the available seats were awkwardly scattered.

Then came an offer I hadn’t expected: an outdoor heating lamp and a Gabbi—a thick, handwoven cotton blanket traditionally wrapped around the shoulders on cold evenings.

First came the lamp—tall and slender, taking up little floor space but casting heat generously across our seating area. Clearly, someone had thought through its design. As if warmth weren’t enough, it bathed our space in a nightclub-like red glow, creating a hazy, romantic aura. Looking into each other’s faces through that soft crimson mist, with the darkness beyond, added an unexpected allure to the evening.

And then, the true delight: our waitress returned with two neatly folded Gabbis. My eyes widened, and I couldn’t help but smile. She gently draped them over our shoulders, transforming us from chilly diners into warmly wrapped guests. Beyond physical comfort, the Gabbis brought a homely charm that felt at once rustic and luxurious. There we were—on the veranda of a world-class hotel, breathing in the crisp night air, the scent of flowering shrubs, and the faint chlorine tang from the pool—yet swaddled in one of the most elemental symbols of Ethiopian warmth. Together, the lamp and the Gabbi didn’t just fend off the cold; they made us feel cared for, secure and comfortable.

But not all encounters with the weather in Addis are so tender.

A few days later, as my not-so-new car turned into the inner streets of the Jemo condominium complex to pick up a friend, I was on high alert. The shallow potholes that are a mere nuisance in the dry season had become water-filled hazards, concealing rocks or holes deep enough to snap a wheel. Pools of rainwater lingered, with nowhere to drain.

My friend told me she couldn’t use her usual pavement—it was completely submerged in murky water. Young men rolled up their trousers, carrying shoes in one hand, daring the crossing barefoot. Some carried loved ones piggyback, praying they wouldn’t slip into the cesspool. Many simply waited for the water to recede or took a detour.

It is not uncommon in Addis Ababa to be trapped indoors—whether at home, under a roadside awning, in a car, or even mid-commute—when a sudden downpour arrives. Many are stranded on their way to work, school, or urgent errands. Social events such as funerals and weddings are often disrupted, creating logistical chaos and emotional strain. The damage is not just personal; the financial toll can be staggering.

I recently heard of a business that lost millions of birr in packaging materials, electronics, and irreplaceable documents after floodwater diverted into its warehouse. The cause? A stretch of nearby road construction that had altered the landscape, inadvertently removing a small dike during the dry season—without considering what would happen when the rains came. What was intended as progress became a catalyst for disaster.

This pattern is not rare. In the city’s rapid road expansion, construction safety and public well-being are too often an afterthought—if considered at all. Open manholes left unguarded, deep pits without railings, poor lighting at night, no signage for roadworks, exposed live electrical cables—it is an endless list of hazards. The approach can feel haphazard, with basic safety treated as optional and accountability rarely enforced, even when lives, property, and livelihoods are at stake.

The worst entrapment often comes for motorists caught in heavy rain. The traffic police—and the army of yellow-vested controllers who swarm the streets in fine weather—are conspicuously absent when downpours turn roads into rivers. Pedestrians, meanwhile, thread dangerously between vehicles, trying to avoid open manholes, slick pavements, and muddy swamps, only to risk being splashed by passing cars. Vehicles inch forward in endless, unmoving lines; horns blare not as polite alerts but as expressions of pure frustration.

The absence of traffic enforcement during such crises raises an uncomfortable question: Are these agencies focused solely on issuing tickets and enforcing road rules? What about ensuring the safe passage of motorists and pedestrians, or preventing the very conditions that make accidents, congestion, and delays inevitable? That, surely, should be part of the mandate.

A short story by W. Somerset Maugham comes to mind: Rain. In it, a group of travelers is stranded in Pago Pago, their ship to Apia delayed by the relentless monsoon. Trapped together, their clashing egos and moral codes build to a tense and unsettling climax. The rain, unceasing and oppressive, becomes as much a character as the people themselves—both a backdrop and a catalyst for confrontation.

Addis’s rainy season is far less dramatic—but no less revealing. Come September, the dust will rise again, and the bright, ambitious air of the Ethiopian new year will replace the cold and damp. Until then, a little forethought could make life easier for everyone. And on the ground, small kindnesses matter—a warm soup, a hot cup of tea, and, of course, a Gabbi never hurts.

(Bereket Balcha holds a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology and Social Anthropology from Addis Ababa University (AAU) and a Diploma in Purchasing and Supply Chain Management from Addis Ababa Commercial College/AAU. His extensive professional background encompasses decades of experience in the aviation industry in diverse roles, complemented by a two-year engagement at the Ethiopia Insurance Corporation. He can be reached at bbalcha5@yahoo.com)

Contributed by Bereket Balcha