By: Staff Contributor
Good Friday felt particularly hot this year, the midday sun beating down, heavy and draining, as if trying to bake the very energy out of the air. I was walking when I saw a woman pass by. On her back, nestled securely, was her child—a little older than you'd usually expect to see carried that way, likely worn out from a journey. In one hand, she held a live hen. My gaze lingered on the child for a moment, then drifted to the woman's surprisingly neat hands. Carrying a child and a flapping hen and somehow keeping her nails so well-manicured? This wasn't just a strong woman; she struck me as incredibly resourceful, capable of handling anything.
Then, a snippet of conversation reached me. Someone asked her the price she’d paid for the hen.
"Two thousand birr," she replied.
Two thousand birr! The number hit me like a physical blow, catching in my throat. Just the week before, I had bought a kilo and a half of whole chicken from the dairy—a substantial amount—for a mere 750 birr. Usually, a whole chicken around here would cost you anywhere between 450 and 650 birr, depending on the breed. The local "Habesha" chickens, known for their richer flavor, fetch the highest prices and are the most sought after. Next are the Wolaita chickens, prized for being larger and meatier than others. While specialty cuts naturally cost more, the idea of shelling out two thousand birr for a single whole bird felt utterly surreal, completely disconnected from any price I knew. Even having chicken in a restaurant rarely hits that level, depending on the restaurant, of course. What on earth was truly happening?
Thinking about it, the answer became starkly clear: a relentless surge in demand, driven almost entirely by the imminent Easter, or Fasika, holiday. After the long two-month fast, when meat and dairy are off-limits for devout Christians, that craving for a proper meal, especially Doro Wat, inevitably explodes as the fast ends. It felt like some merchants were shamelessly exploiting this predictable peak, effectively doubling their prices, banking on the fact that for a major holiday like this, tradition and the desire for that specific celebratory meal often outweigh the cost in people's minds. It struck me as a blatant, almost cynical, exploitation of cultural reverence.
To be fair, the price of chicken isn’t the same everywhere. If you stepped directly into the heart of the live hen market itself, depending on where you live, you would witness the raw dynamics. The air buzzes with noise and, crucially, with intense bargaining! Prices are anything but fixed; it’s a constant, lively negotiation. Here, the big, strong birds from Wolaita are the stars, the most desired in terms of their size, and they command a premium—sometimes hitting that 1,800 birr mark I’d heard, perhaps even setting the baseline for the woman's 2,000 birr purchase elsewhere. Birds from other regions typically range between 900 and 1,300 birr, according to a market review by The Reporter, with the final price depending entirely on how the individual bird looks and feels—its size, health, and overall vigor. And the fascinating part? No scales in sight. The seasoned vendors simply heft the birds in their hands, using their long-honed experience to judge the weight and value on the spot. So, yes, your own haggling skill in that moment definitely plays a role too.
However, I noticed a more encouraging approach from some other merchants. Rather than focusing solely on the soaring chicken prices, they adopted a more thoughtful strategy. They were offering discounts on essential staples like eggs and other everyday goods. This approach felt far more sustainable, building genuine goodwill and potentially fostering stronger customer loyalty beyond the holiday rush. By providing real value on items people constantly need, they weren't just offering immediate relief from holiday expenses; they were also subtly encouraging larger purchases of other goods, creating a win-win in the long run. It was a refreshing contrast to the pure opportunism centered on the holiday's traditional centerpiece.
Meanwhile, a sudden, rich aroma of sautéed onions drifted my way, instantly igniting a craving for Doro Wat, that incredible, flavorful stew that is our holiday. Thinking about families starting that slow process of cooking down onions for days, sometimes beginning as early as Friday or Saturday, reinforced how central Doro Wat is. But that 2000 birr chicken... it lingered in my mind.
What if, just for this one holiday, we as a community made a collective stand? What if we decided, together, to simply boycott chicken? To drastically reduce the demand? I know the argument! "It's a holiday!" "Tradition must be upheld, no matter the cost!" And I understand that sentiment to a point. But what about the families who simply cannot afford these wildly inflated prices? Is it fair that they might be excluded from sharing in a traditional holiday meal because of someone else's greed? Surely, surely, we can find a way to ensure everyone has access to affordable, celebratory food. A collective boycott could be a powerful message to those who are profiteering, pushing towards a fairer system for all of us.
Being someone who tries to see things from multiple angles, my thoughts then turned beyond just the individual merchants. Perhaps blaming the inflated chicken prices solely on opportunistic sellers paints too simple a picture. Global inflation undoubtedly plays a significant role, driving up the costs of feed, transportation, and every other link in the chain that brings chicken to our tables.
So, whether it's pure opportunism or just the complex ripple effects of global economic pressures, one thing feels clear: coming together, taking some control of this situation as a community, is the only way we'll make a real difference. We need to ensure everyone can actually afford to take part in our cherished Fasika traditions without facing such painful costs. Our collective choices can have power.
And yet, even after weighing all these factors, a nagging feeling persists in the pit of my stomach. I suspect that when the holiday truly arrives, when the preparations are complete and the aromas fill the air, many, many people will still eagerly buy that chicken. That taste, so deeply interwoven with the very fabric of our celebrations, so wonderfully irresistible in its richness and tradition, may simply eclipse the steep price tag in people's minds. The powerful pull of tradition, the desire for that specific, iconic meal, has a way of overriding even the most pressing economic concerns.