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."

Across Africa, 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.

In the lush area of Sea Point in Cape Town, which hugs the length of the Atlantic Ocean, there's more than meets the eye. While looking picture perfect from the outside, soaring property prices mean the area is inaccessible to most working-class locals, and instead only geared for tourism. One long-time resident, Sheila Madikane, has lived and worked in Sea Point since 1987. A domestic worker and housing activist, she is one of the leaders of Reclaim the City (RTC), a social movement fighting for affordable housing, and a member of the Ahmed Kathrada House (AKH) occupation, formerly Helen Bowden Nurses Home, in Green Point, just next to Sea Point.

Under apartheid, Madikane recalls moving in with her aunt on St. Johns Road, but due to the restrictions in the apartment, she left the room early each morning to avoid being seen, and bathed using public taps. She eventually found work as a domestic worker and lived at the Mimosa apartments. When their "maid's quarters" were shut down, she struggled to find accommodation for herself, her three daughters, and her grandchild. That's when they moved into the housing occupation. She is now one of the most important voices in the struggle for affordable accommodation.

Madikane became an activist when she realized others faced the same struggles she did. Cape Town's housing crisis has deepened alongside widening inequality. The segregation entrenched by apartheid-era policies like the Group Areas Act of the 1950s pushed poor and working-class families to the city's margins. Today, the inner city remains a space largely reserved for wealthy South Africans and foreign tourists who can afford its soaring property prices. But the citizens are not going down without a fight.

Over the past decade, housing occupations led by civil society movements have surged, demanding access to well-located, affordable housing. The reality is stark. Housing demand in the Western Cape far exceeds supply. Some applicants have waited 30 years on government databases. As of September 2024, the backlog surpassed 400,000. In a country where 10 percent of the population controls 90 percent of the wealth, these occupations represent more than resistance. They are a fight for equity, dignity, and a more equal country.

Women — mothers, grandmothers, caregivers — are often at the forefront of this fight, taking matters into their own hands. They have fought for inclusivity and transformation, and the visibility of these movements has grown significantly, with wins achieved at the High Court and Constitutional Court. The government-owned building (Ahmed Kathrada House) is now home to Reclaim the City (RTC), whose rallying cry is "Land for People, Not for Profit." RTC began as a campaign against apartheid spatial planning, gentrification, and the inner city's housing scarcity, issues still urgent three decades into democracy.

Their struggle began in March 2017, when domestic workers, petrol attendants, carers, nurses, and teachers occupied the provincially owned building. Their action was sparked by then Western Cape Premier Helen Zille's decision to sell the Tafelberg site in Sea Point, which activists had earmarked for social housing. Instead of engaging, the provincial government tried to make conditions unlivable for the occupants by cutting off their electricity.

Madikane, now a key RTC figure, wrote in an open letter to Zille, "I have told you what the Tafelberg site represents to me, and other domestic workers and carers in Sea Point: for us, it is a symbol of hope, a way to desegregate our city; to recognize the struggles of working-class people; to live and work in the inner city. But we have not been heard."

The fight for Tafelberg has been ongoing with housing activists who had a major win at the Constitutional Court last year when the sale of the building was overturned. In May 2025, the Western Cape provincial government revealed its housing plans, which, after years of activists fighting, include plans for affordable and social housing in sections of the building.

In June 2024, the award-winning documentary Mother City, chronicling the ongoing Tafelberg battle, was released. The film follows activists of the RTC movement over six years as they make Cape Town’s abandoned spaces their home and use them as a base from which to lobby for the needs of the working class.

Cissie Gool House (CGH)

That same year, across the city in Woodstock, another occupation was forming in a highly gentrified neighborhood. Housing leader Bevil Lucas, a veteran anti-apartheid activist, was asked to join the occupation of the former Woodstock Hospital, which had been vacant since 1992. A portion functioned as a day hospital until 2018. Lucas, a longtime Woodstock resident, is now part of what is known as the Cissie Gool House (CGH).

He was drawn in by the name "Reclaim the City." "It's something that I could identify with. I felt that this sits well with my political orientation of trying to find a space in which democratic practice can exist and in which social needs of people, such as housing, can and should be delivered," he tells OkayAfrica. Initially hesitant due to health concerns and trauma from state violence under apartheid, Lucas asked himself: "Do you want to get into this again? Are you ready for another round?"

Lucas has no regrets. "The pessimism that I had was completely undone when I moved into the occupation. I think what sparked it was the level of internal organization, the participatory decision-making, the campaigns about land and housing, and the hands-on work it took to make it livable. It's a space where people make their future by participating in it. As an activist, it's very rewarding that you can see how something takes shape by participating in it."

Both AKH and CGH are named after anti-apartheid heroes and emerged in response to the Tafelberg ruling, demanding state accountability. CGH prides itself on its structure and ethos of care. Over 1,000 people now live there in 350 self-built households. Residents and volunteers have ensured access to electricity, water, waste collection, and even vegetable gardens.

Yet, the city wants to sell the site to private developers for mixed-use development and social housing. A move that could displace most CGH residents. Woodstock, like neighboring Bo-Kaap, is a gentrification hotspot. Many locals have already been evicted or priced out of their homes.

The broader fight dates back to the post-apartheid housing advocacy of groups like the Housing Assembly (founded in 2009) and Ndifuna Ukwazi. The latter has provided crucial legal, research, and advocacy support, including the People's Land Map, which identified 2,787 underutilized public sites for potential housing development.

Singabalapha

One of today's most visible acts of resistance is Singabalapha, meaning "We belong here" in isiXhosa. Originally, shack dwellers and backyarders from Langa, Gugulethu, Nyanga East, and Khayelitsha occupied a defunct nursing home in Observatory in September 2019 but were evicted a month later. In defiance, they set up camp on the pavement next door.

They first lived in tents, but were evicted by the city. Soon after, they sought out legal help. In 2020, they had a win in the High Court, which prevented the group from being evicted. Now they reside in informal homes along the main road, highly visible and highly contested. While some call it an eyesore, Singabalapha is a defiant reminder that people won't be pushed back to the townships.

A recent short film captures the hardships residents face. "There is no such thing as freedom for us. We know that. That's why we came out on our own. If you don't do it yourself, no one will," occupier Barbara Vuza says in the documentary.

Vuza moved to the occupation to be closer to the city for work. She had been on the city's housing list since 1985 but received no word back. She lives in Singabalapha with her sister and eight other relatives. She has been one of the leading activists and a spokesperson for the movement.

A space for true democracy

At the core of each occupation is a call for affordable housing near workplaces, schools, and services. Apartheid's spatial planning locked many out of economic opportunity, but these residents refuse to be banished to far-off, underserved areas.

However, perhaps the biggest surprise of all is how these communities have become spaces for actual democratic processes. Meetings guide decision-making. Residents grow food, maintain buildings, and organize together. While much of the country is steeped in radical inequalities, here, against all odds, is a semblance of true community and democracy.

Amplifying voices

Residents say the city still refuses to engage. They have repeatedly asked not to be portrayed as criminals and building hijackers. CGH resident and housing leader Karen Hendricks told a protest crowd, "When we went to occupy Cissie Gool House in 2017, we did it to protest the sale of the Tafelberg site. But we also did it because this city is gentrified. The land is sold to private developers; they are prioritized above the people, the communities, and the neighborhoods that exist. So we are saying here today that we will not have another forced removal like there was in apartheid."

AKH echoes this sentiment in their joint statement. "Ahmed Kathrada House is not just a home. It is where we meet and deliberate on our work and campaigns. It is a place with a view of the sea. We, too, want to live close to where we work; we want to improve our lives, and we want the systems that sustain the status quo to be dismantled. We demand social and affordable housing."

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

Alongside this series, we're launching My First Place, a subseries following young Africans across the continent as they navigate the milestone of securing and setting up their first independent living space. These personal stories will show us what housing independence truly looks like for young people today.

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.