Across Africa, many people can no longer afford the cities and neighborhoods they've long called home. OkayAfrica is running This Place Called Home - a series exploring the housing crisis transforming African cities and communities, and what happens when basic shelter becomes a luxury commodity.

If you were to land in Addis Ababa today after just a few months away, much of the city would feel unfamiliar.

Driving from Bole International Airport toward the center, you'll pass a light-filled, tree-lined boulevard with wide sidewalks, stylish cafés, and boutique shops. Neighborhoods like Piassa and Kazanchis, once renowned for their rich histories and vibrant street life, have disappeared. In their place stands a new skyline of Addis. The tallest building in the city is now a gleaming glass tower that houses the Commercial Bank of Ethiopia and a rooftop restaurant by chef Marcus Samuelsson.

The message is clear: Addis Ababa, home of the African Union, is repositioning itself as a global city.

But for locals like Qal Fessehaye, a writer and filmmaker, the urbanization is a story of fading belonging. She grew up in Addis and has always called it home. The changes have been "discombobulating," especially given the breakneck speed of construction.

"You would wake up, go outside, and a road would be finished overnight," she says in an interview with OkayAfrica. "It is a feat construction-wise. But for somebody living in the city, it's very jolting. You would try to visit somewhere, and an entire neighborhood would just be gone within a few days!"

Much of this change is driven by a multibillion-dollar "City Corridor Project" by Addis Mayor Adanech Abebe and Ethiopian Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed to develop and modernize the city's infrastructure. It is part of a larger Corridor Development Project across at least 58 cities.

The project envisions a city of pedestrian boulevards, bike lanes, green spaces, libraries, and commercial corridors. The broader goal is to make Addis a more livable, investor- and foreigner-friendly destination and a model African capital.

They have built a national library and a new science museum. The National Palace, the former residence of Emperor Haile Selassie I, has undergone a new refurbishment. In some neighborhoods, streets are newly paved, and dark streets now have streetlights. Residents now walk freely through areas once considered unsafe after dark.

But could the price of progress be too high?

Thousands of residents have been displaced, many of whom were removed from homes they had lived in for decades with little notice and relocated to condominiums on the city's edge. Some were instructed to enter lotteries to determine their new housing assignments. Others have reported little to no compensation. These new locations are often far from familiar jobs, schools, and the support systems they once depended on.

In April, Amnesty International called for the Ethiopian government to pause the project and end forced evictions.

Some, like Fessehaye, were not evicted by bulldozers but pushed out by the rising cost of living. She had lived in her previous apartment for about three years when her landlord informed her that the rent would more than double, from 12,000 birr (USD$87) to 25,000 birr (USD$181).

When she questioned the legality of the increase, the landlord simply told her she could either find another place or pay the new rate. Despite the notice, she had no choice but to downsize.

The dislocation pushed Fessehaye to act. She reached out to friends, fellow creatives, and longtime residents to reflect on the changes reshaping their city. Few were speaking openly, and many artists were hesitant to voice their discomfort. For them, it was a tricky balance between enjoying the changes and feeling that it was unfair to complain.

The result was a Substack post that spoke volumes. Many described feeling alienated in their city. While they acknowledged the improved infrastructure, they mourned the loss of Addis Ababa's soul and community.

"When I was having conversations with my friends... they're like, 'Okay, we can walk on the roads now, but you know, what about our neighborhoods? What about our homes?" she explains.

And it's not just the residents. Third spaces, such as cafés, bars, and cultural venues, are either vanishing or shifting their focus toward wealthier customers. Others have completely disappeared because they can't afford it. As a result, people are staying home more and interacting less with their community.

According to Fikir Getaneh Haile, an Assistant Professor at Acadia University, the city has prioritized private investment while sidelining residents. She argues that political leaders have to balance economic ambition with protections for everyday citizens. She also stresses the need for meaningful consultation with the communities.

Fessehaye agrees. But for her, consultation is not enough. True inclusion means being part of the planning process from the beginning. She points to the construction of Entoto Park as a positive example, where creatives and local professionals had a say in shaping the space.

"That gave people a sense of ownership," she said. "But with the [current project], for example, we were not part of the plan. It just happened around us."

She adds that the changes around them are isolating: "Those of us who lived in the center of the city just felt like nobody wants us here anymore. Because we can't afford anything, we can't afford the houses, we can't afford the food."

Despite the changes, a fierce loyalty to the city remains, with many hoping they will not have to move to other parts of the country that are more affordable. However, Fessehaye admits that it is becoming a reality that many face daily. "I've heard this a few times where people are saying it's just easier to move to a different region and live there."

In February, OkayAfrica examined how West African youths struggle to afford their cities as these urban centers gain cultural prominence. As Lagos, Accra, and Dakar transform into major culture capitals, hosting fashion shows, art fairs, and music festivals, and becoming the go-to destinations for diaspora returnees, young locals find themselves priced out of the rental market in neighborhoods they've long called home.

The story struck a nerve. Young Africans felt seen and recognized in a struggle they thought was uniquely theirs. However, our readers and followers revealed something bigger: this wasn't just a West African trend or even an African one. The crisis was everywhere.

The responses poured in, painting a picture of a global housing emergency.

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"It's no different from anywhere in the world. It's happening in the US, UK, Germany — everywhere. The old neighborhoods that people grew up in are being redesigned by property developers for large profits, removing the locals who can no longer afford to live where they grew up."

"As a 2nd generation San Franciscan being priced out of my city of birth, I don't wish this on anyone. This drains the real culture from a city as its people move away. SF has been boring for some time now because no San Franciscans live here anymore."

Perhaps most revealing was this comment about Senegal, "I visited many apartments in Dakar and always asked one question when given the price: who on earth are the clients who can pay for this? The realtors always told me it's rich locals for the most part, and very few people from the diaspora. All the apartments I visited in Dakar were more expensive than my apartment in Paris. How is that even possible?"

From these conversations, we can tell that the culprit is not returning diaspora communities (although they play a part) as often assumed, but rather systemic failures. It's weak governance, unchecked capitalism, and corruption.

What began as a story about young West Africans struggling to afford rent revealed itself to be something more complex: a web of urbanization, property speculation, and inequality affecting cities across the continent.

A series born out of necessity

The stories our community shared highlight painful paradoxes. African cities are becoming unaffordable for Africans, cultural capitals are losing their culture and the people who created it, and young people are forced to choose between proximity to opportunity and financial survival.

Recognizing the importance and urgency of these issues, we have decided to dig deeper with a series of stories. One that explores one of humanity's most basic needs, shelter, and why the fight for affordable housing has become one of the most pressing challenges of our time.

Over the coming weeks, we'll look at:

• The fight for equality through housing occupations in Cape Town
• How war and displacement have made Port Sudan increasingly expensive to live in
• How urbanization and a housing crisis are destroying tradition and communal bonds in Ethiopia
• The human cost of Lagos's luxury waterfront development
• How shared living is solving Lagos's housing crisis
• How soaring property prices have created a marriage bottleneck in Egypt
• How diaspora Africans are building dream homes and communities on the continent at a huge cost to locals, and
• A growing trend of reverse urbanization in South Africa

Why this matters now

Housing is more than just buildings. It's about dignity, community, cultural continuity, and the right to remain rooted in the places that shaped us. Losing this means we lose the essence of our cities.

This series documents an ongoing crisis to help us understand the forces transforming African cities and communities and to ask the hard questions about what kind of future we're building.