When Dr. Kalkidan Esayas speaks about the environment, she doesn’t begin with abstract numbers or charts. She begins with a...

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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."

Women in Africa have been protesting gender-based violence for years, having to amplify their voices to get some justice. The rape of a young girl or the murder of a woman hardly moves the needle of justice until placards of "Stop Killing Us," "EnaZeda," "End Femicide," or "#ShutitAllDown" are raised in outrage.

Across South Africa, Kenya, Uganda, Ethiopia, Tunisia, Nigeria, and more, NGOs and women's shelters have had to step up in place of the government to provide aid and fight for justice for victims of gender-based violence (GBV). However, in recent times, some African countries have taken some measures to combat GBV.

In January, after years of petitions, the South African government announced that it would release the list of sex offenders and those convicted of GBV to the public. Kenya's President William Ruto set up a 42-member task force on GBV and femicide.

In Uganda, the Anti-Female Genital Mutilation Act and the Domestic Violence Act were adopted in 2010 to tackle acts against women and girls. Eight years later, the government created a special court session to rule on cases of sexual and gender-based violence. According to a 2023 report by its judiciary, the conviction rate increased from 20 percent to 70 percent in over 2000 cases.

Despite these actions, some experts say it is increasingly clear that the protection and justice for women and girls remains of low priority to their respective governments. For instance, South Africa's sex offender list is yet to be made public. Sabrina Walter, founder of Women for Change (WFCWFC), says it seems unlikely that it will ever happen.

"The promised release of the public sex offenders list was yet another empty commitment from our government," Walter tells OkayAfrica. "By withholding such critical data, the government becomes complicit in the ongoing violence. They are choosing to protect the privacy of criminals over the safety and rights of survivors."

Withholding this information allows perpetrators to continue causing harm. A sex offender can start working at schools or stay near potential victims without their knowledge, rendering them vulnerable.

A 2024 UNICEF report states that one in five women and girls in Sub-Saharan Africa have been raped or sexually assaulted before turning 18, the highest number of victims globally.

Meanwhile, when victims seek justice, the process is often grueling, financially draining, and fraught with delays. By the time a court reaches a verdict, the families of the victims are frequently left unsatisfied with the outcome. As was the case for Damilola Ayanwole, whose sister, Bamise Ayanwole, was raped and murdered in the state-operated rapid transit bus in Lagos, Nigeria in 2022.

The bus driver, Andrew Nice Ominikoron, was recently sentenced to death for his crimes. But Ayanwole believes that more could have been done to achieve true justice. "The conviction is okay but still needs work," she tells OkayAfrica. "When two or three people commit a crime, and only one of them faces the penalty, it shows we need to reform our judicial system. I gave up everything that belonged to me to fight for my sister. Since February 27, 2022, I have been on this journey, and it has seriously affected me."

However, in South Africa, the court ruling was swifter in Joshlin Smith's case – the six-year-old girl sold by her mother, her mother's boyfriend, and their friend in February 2024. After an eight-week trial this year, the perpetrators (Racquel Smith, Jacquen Appollis, and Steveno van Rhyn) were sentenced to life imprisonment for kidnapping and trafficking. Still, it remains a sad case as Joshlin is yet to be found.

"This case marks a rare moment of justice in a country where most GBV cases drag on for years and often end without accountability," Walter says. "But despite months of investigation, the child has not been found, highlighting yet another devastating failure by the police."

In 2020, South Africa launched the National Strategic Plan on Gender-Based Violence and Femicide, with a ten-year roadmap to create a safe environment for women and girls. Burkina Faso upgraded its National Action Plan on Women, Peace, and Security in 2023 for a two-year duration to prevent violence against women. Similarly, Namibia plans to revamp its old national plan of action on gender-based violence.

Despite policies put in place to tackle GBV in some of these countries, there continues to be an epidemic of violence against women because governments address violence and crimes against women with a surface-level approach. Their policies might look good on paper, but the implementation is often lackluster.

Abiodun Kolawole, a lawyer and human rights activist, believes that the fundamental problem behind GBV is the government's disinterest. "It is a matter of selfishness; they don't care about women," he tells OkayAfrica. "The foundation is weak; our government has failed us all. They serve merely as decorations because, while they excel in theoretical discussions, the essence of law lies in strong implementation. If people do not feel the practical impact, then their performance grade is below F9."

On a warm evening in early April, more than 500 people lined up outside a Los Angeles warehouse for what had quickly become one of the city's must-attend parties.

The door team greeted each guest with warmth and style, setting the tone for what lay inside. Thick with hookah smoke and heavy bass, the air pulsed as the DJ spun a soundscape rooted in East African mixes.

Beautiful Black faces filled the room while conversations buzzed. Old friends reunited, and strangers quickly became kin. At the bar, honey wine flowed steadily. Mereba was the guest host.

Whether guests came to dance, unwind, or simply take it all in, one thing was clear: this wasn't just a party. Motherland Sounds is a cultural event and movement redefining how East African culture is celebrated in the diaspora.

"It's a very come-as-you-are type of environment," Addis Daniel, co-founder and artistic director of Motherland Sounds, tells OkayAfrica. "You walk in and immediately feel like you're seen. People are stylish, and the energy is up but grounded. It's not about exclusivity; it's about belonging."

What began in 2023 as a casual launch for a honey wine brand has since evolved into one of LA's most intentional cultural platforms. Founded by five creatives — Daniel, Miriam Haregot, Tamé Bezabeh, Yonas Michael, and Denkinesh Argaw —their mission was to create a contemporary space that amplifies East African identity, particularly that of Ethiopians and Eritreans, through sound, visuals, and community.

The Roots of a Movement

Long before Motherland Sounds officially came together, its foundation was being laid during the pandemic. Daniel says that it was a collaborative time among East African artists and creatives in Los Angeles. They organized conversations and informal gatherings focused on Ethiopia and Eritrea, particularly in response to the political conflicts that had started back home.

These early efforts were as much about community as they were about activism. The group explored how diaspora artists, many of whom are first- or second-generation, could utilize their creativity and cultural capital to raise awareness and express solidarity. How do you stay connected to home while building something meaningful abroad?

"We asked how we can utilize our art and our cultural capital to bring attention to what's happening, and then also to bring attention to what we have going on," Daniel says.

Motherland Sounds is also an effort to shift the spotlight to East Africa, at a time when music and aesthetics from West and South Africa dominate the global stage. While Ethiopia and Eritrea are recognized for their ancient histories and cuisine, their cultures remain underrepresented in modern diaspora narratives. This gap is especially striking in Los Angeles — home to America's entertainment industry — where Ethiopians and Eritreans have long been present. Their community is centered along Fairfax Avenue, in the officially designated "Little Ethiopia," yet public cultural expressions have mostly been limited to weddings, church events, or family gatherings.

For first and second-generation Habesha youth, Motherland Sounds offers a new cultural space. "This is something people can share with non-East African friends," says Daniel. "It's a source of pride. And for people outside the community, it's a door that's been burst open. It's a space to connect."

So it's not surprising that Motherland Sounds also echoes the legacy of Nipsey Hussle, the late rapper and entrepreneur of Eritrean descent who built his movement in South LA. Hussle was always proud of his roots. As a result, his spirit is a guiding presence for the collective, which honored him in an event on his birthday in 2024. "Nipsey proved you can hold space for your community and still think globally," Daniel says.

Music Takes Centre Stage

Music is the heart of the Motherland Sounds experience. It's curated with a deep understanding of "the assignment," the team's shorthand for their commitment to authentically representing East Africa and beyond. The DJs selected are chosen based on their ability to curate a diverse range of African sounds, not just their popularity.

"It's about championing those eclectic sounds from the continent," Daniel says. "And if all you know how to do is play whatever the latest amapiano hit is, then Burna Boy and Wizkid, and that's your whole Afrobeats set — no shade — but I don't know if you can really stick to the assignment."

DJ Arkie Tadesse, a regular at the events, is known for delivering what they call an "Arkie set." It's a selection-focused African mix, from Salif Keita to Amadou & Mariam and vintage Sudanese funk. DJ Chinua and Tana Yonas are also regulars who understand the assignment.

As attendance grows, Daniel acknowledges the challenge of maintaining intimacy from the event's early days while expanding the vision. The team is exploring smaller, members-only gatherings and spacing out their flagship events to preserve the original spirit.

"It's important that our day-one people still feel seen," she says.

Funding, too, remains a hurdle. The community powers the events, but Daniel admits it can be hard. "Nobody talks about how much support, financial and otherwise, you need to do something like this." But there are discussions about taking the event around the country and maybe even to Africa. But for now, Daniel says Motherland Sounds continues to be curated by and for a new generation of diasporans reclaiming their narrative.

"We've always been here. Now, we've got a space that says it out loud."