In Shero Meda, a once dusty neighbourhood in northern Addis Ababa now undergoing a dramatic facelift, rows of small shops display Ethiopia’s signature handwoven fabrics — the white cotton dresses and shawls that have long defined the country’s traditional fashion.
Among the many traders is Lidya Seleshi, a 29-year-old entrepreneur who manages her family’s decades-old clothing business. Like generations before her, she sells intricately woven Habesha Kemis and shawls to customers who prize craftsmanship and cultural identity.
But these days, Lidya faces a daunting challenge: a flood of cheap, machine-made imitations imported from China. The knockoffs, sold at a fraction of the price, have transformed the market and left local weavers and traders struggling to compete.
“Many people are choosing the Chinese imports to cut costs instead of spending their hard-earned money on quality products that last longer,” Lidya said. “Even business owners who once valued handwoven fabrics are now importing from China in large quantities.”
Many traders share Lidya’s frustration. They say that weak government oversight and a lack of protection for local industries have left them vulnerable in a market increasingly dominated by foreign goods. Some are considering giving up altogether.
Michael Kebede, another shop owner in Shero Meda, said his once-thriving business has been forced to scale back orders. “Customers used to come back regularly,” he said. “Now, once they realize they can get what looks like the same product elsewhere for much less, they feel I have cheated them and never return.”
“With prices this low and no repeat buyers,” Michael added, “selling only traditional handmade fabrics is no longer sustainable. Unless we adapt — even by selling Chinese products ourselves — we can’t survive.”
In this part of Addis Ababa, the difference between genuine handwoven garments and the Chinese imitations is easy to spot. The imported fabrics often bear printed designs rather than woven patterns and tend to fade after a few washes — a stark contrast to the vibrant, enduring sheen of traditional Ethiopian textiles.
At a recent Enkopa Summit, former international model Anna Getaneh, one of Ethiopia’s most recognized fashion figures from the 1990s, reflected on the challenges faced by local designers. “When I began my Ethiopian chapter 10 years ago, there was no real fashion ecosystem,” she said. “I had to start from scratch — even building my own factory.”
Anna noted that many designers today have learned to collaborate rather than compete, forming small support networks to sustain their craft. Yet, the market realities remain harsh.
Henok Tewedaj, who runs a fabric shop in Shero Meda, said consumers are increasingly drawn to cheaper imports. “The Chinese fabrics are just stamped, not woven,” he said. “They fade quickly when washed, while our handwoven clothes can last for years.”
Henok often sees customers who view traditional attire as disposable, something to wear once for a wedding or holiday before discarding it. “It’s disappointing,” he said. “An entire younger generation now treats cultural clothing as ‘use and throw.’ That’s why the Chinese products are flooding the market.”
Even wealthier buyers, he added, have unwittingly contributed to the trend. “Middle-class customers in areas like Bole are buying Chinese fabrics to use as curtains or upholstery,” Henok said. “They’re indirectly fueling the demand for imports instead of supporting Ethiopian craftsmanship.”
In Bole — one of the city’s most upscale neighborhoods — boutique shops sell luxury Habesha Kemis for prices reaching 500,000 birr or more. Yodit Gebreselassie, who bought her traditional wedding dress there for 300,000 birr, said the price was worth it. “It was beautiful, elegant, and perfectly designed,” she said. “It represented moderation and tradition.”
Despite such devotion among local buyers, Ethiopian traditional wear has yet to find significant success abroad. A rare moment of international attention came in 2019, when Million Samuel, Ethiopia’s newly appointed ambassador to the Netherlands, wore a strikingly designed traditional outfit to an event — drawing widespread admiration and inquiries about its designer.
But the ambassador, out of loyalty, declined to name the creator. That didn’t stop others, like Yared Sisay, from trying to replicate the piece locally. “I took the fabric to a designer to recreate it,” he said, “but it didn’t come close.”
Yared believes the industry’s potential is stifled by limited skills and visibility. “Ethiopian designers have the passion,” he said, “but most focus on women’s clothing, where the market is larger. The few talented ones don’t market their work — they design mainly for close friends.”
