A fuel crisis turns commutes into ordeals, exposing the human cost of a global crisis
The sky over Addis Ababa did not simply leak last Wednesday; it gave way. At the Megenagna transport hub, one of the capital’s busiest junctions, the air hung heavy with diesel fumes and humidity. Hundreds of commuters clustered under a patchwork of umbrellas, damp shoulders pressed together, all pursuing the same aim: a seat on a blue-and-white minibus bound for Bole, Gerji Mebrat Hail or Goro.
Among them was a woman in her mid-40s, moving through the crowd with visible urgency. She gripped a half-broken umbrella that offered little protection. After nearly 30 minutes in a line that advanced by inches, she managed to climb aboard a minibus.
On a rainy night in Addis Ababa, the notion of capacity is elastic. A vehicle built for 12 carried close to 20 passengers, packed shoulder to shoulder as the windows fogged with breath.
As the taxi pulled toward Goro, the fare collector—known locally as a woyalla—began calling out prices.
“60 birr to Goro. 40 to Mebrat Hail.”
The announcement was met with silence. For many, the increase was stark in a city where rising food and transport costs have tightened already strained budgets. Still, most passengers reached for their pockets, paying what had become, in effect, the surcharge of scarcity.
When the collector turned to the woman with the broken umbrella, she hesitated.
“How much?” she asked quietly.
“60 birr,” he replied.
What followed broke the subdued rhythm of the ride. The woman began to sob, her voice unsteady as she spoke.
“I only have 40 birr,” she said. “I am a cleaner. I scrub floors and toilets all day for 3,700 birr a month. My husband is a laborer. My children are waiting at home. How can I pay 60?”
The cramped interior shifted. What had been a space of silent strangers became, briefly, a place of shared witness.
She described the distance still ahead—a walk to Sefera, beyond Goro—and the arithmetic that no longer added up: a wage that could not cover transport, let alone food and rent.
Her distress prompted an immediate response. The fare collector’s tone softened; he returned her money and waved her through. Other passengers, many facing similar constraints, quietly offered small contributions.
But the moment of solidarity gave way to a wider argument. Attention turned to the forces shaping their predicament.
The driver, navigating the rain-slicked road, spoke up.
“I don’t have a choice,” he said. “Sometimes we wait two or three days in line for fuel. Other times we have to buy it on the black market—500 or 600 birr a liter—just to keep working. I have a family to support, too.”
His voice lowered as he described shrinking margins and mounting anxiety. With official tariffs rising, he said, informal fuel markets were compounding the strain.
“These illegal dealings,” he added, “will burn whatever is left.”
He also alluded to allegations that some fuel stations were withholding supply, reselling it at inflated prices after dark — claims that are difficult to verify but widely circulated among drivers.
Inside the minibus, the conversation drifted from personal hardship to broader questions.
Passengers began to speak of distant events — the war in Iran and the vulnerability of the Strait of Hormuz — geopolitical tremors unfolding thousands of miles away, now registering in something as immediate as a taxi fare between Megenagna and Goro.
As the minibus pressed on through the rain, the city remained lit against the storm. The woman fell quiet, her earlier anguish settling into a heavy, anticipatory silence.
What unfolded in that minibus reflects a broader strain gripping the country.
Across Addis Ababa, daily life has been reshaped by protracted fuel shortages. For more than three weeks, transport hubs that once pulsed with the constant churn of minibuses have slowed markedly. At filling stations, lines of vehicles — from “kitkit” Isuzus and freight trucks to taxis and Higer buses — extend for kilometers, waiting for supplies that arrive sporadically, if at all.
The disruption has rippled outward. Commuters — students, civil servants, the elderly — now spend hours searching for transport. Analysts and residents alike describe the situation as more than a logistical bottleneck; it has evolved into an economic shock that is diffusing through multiple sectors.
Fuel scarcity has driven up transport costs, which in turn has pushed the price of basic goods higher, intensifying an already acute cost-of-living strain. For low-income workers, a single trip can now absorb a disproportionate share of daily earnings.
Alongside the visible pressures of global supply disruptions, a parallel system has emerged within the city’s fuel market.
Interviews with drivers, traders and residents point to what they describe as an expanding informal network, in which fuel is diverted from official distribution channels and resold at sharply inflated prices. The allegations — difficult to independently verify — suggest collusion among some station workers, intermediaries and opportunistic traders.
Motorcycle riders have become central to this shadow supply chain, transporting fuel in jerrycans through congested streets to customers willing to pay a premium.
In the neighborhood known as 22 Mazoriya, a young man who goes by the nickname “Doctor” exemplifies this shift. By day, he shines shoes. Increasingly, he supplements his income by delivering fuel on a motorbike.
On a recent afternoon, he was seen transferring fuel from his motorcycle tank into a taxi — a transaction that has become more common as formal supply falters.
Speaking openly, he described a system that, in his account, has become routine.
“Getting fuel like this is now normal,” he said, alleging that some station employees divert supply toward informal channels where margins are higher.
He outlined a straightforward, if precarious, business model: purchasing fuel — often late at night or before dawn — at prices ranging from 300 to 400 birr, then reselling it for 500 to 600 birr to drivers and businesses unable to secure it through official means.
For him, the calculus is pragmatic.
“This has become an additional source of income,” he said. “The situation has opened opportunities for us. War is not something to welcome, but as long as this continues, there is work here.”
In response, the Addis Ababa Transport Bureau had introduced a priority allocation system, giving public transport vehicles first access to fuel. Officials also created a dedicated task force that has been deployed to curb hoarding and price gouging at filling stations.
The bureau has also urged mass transit operators to run at full capacity and called on residents to walk short distances where possible. Private vehicle owners, it said, should limit nonessential travel and conserve fuel as the country weathers the shock.
For many commuters, those measures have offered little immediate relief.
Admasu Yimer, who lives in Koye Feche in Sheger City and works in the Jemo area, describes the strain in blunt terms. Self-employed, he now spends at least four hours each day waiting for transport.
“Before, I would leave early and reach my office by 8 a.m.,” he said. “Now, after standing in lines for hours, I arrive around 10.”
The pattern repeats in the evening, he added, with long queues just to get home. The cumulative effect, he said, is eroding both income and routine. “Our income hasn’t increased,” he said. “But everything else has.”
At a consultative forum organized by the Office of the Prime Minister of Ethiopia on April 28 under the theme “Social Development for Nation Building,” PM Abiy Ahmed addressed public frustration over the persistent queues, arguing that the country has remained operational despite mounting global pressures.
“You always talk about queues,” he said. “There are queues, but fuel problems have occurred across the world.”
As a point of comparison, he cited the international aviation sector, noting that while carriers such as Lufthansa have reduced operations amid rising costs, Ethiopian Airlines has largely maintained its schedule.
“I haven’t heard people appreciating Ethiopian Airlines,” he said. “I’m not saying we should be praised, but I’ve only heard complaints while things were actually functioning.”
The prime minister also defended the government’s intervention, saying the state had absorbed a sharp increase in fuel costs — allocating roughly 20 billion birr in a single month to stabilize supply.
Despite ongoing fuel scarcity, the government has confirmed the complete reinstatement of diesel supply to pre-disruption levels.
During his media address, Ahmed Shide, Minister of Finance, stated that at the height of the disruption, the nation experienced a 50 percent reduction in its daily diesel supply, decreasing to approximately 4.5 million liters.
“The daily diesel supply will now be reinstated to the prior level of 9 million liters per day,” he said.
