By: Hawi Bussa
There’s a particular kind of hush that falls over Addis Ababa when the rain begins. Not a dramatic, cinematic storm—but that quiet kind of drizzle that seems to settle into the bones of the city. You feel it before it begins. The air thickens with the smell of iron and earth, the clouds begin their slow gathering, and time—somehow—stretches out a little longer. In Ethiopia, rain doesn’t just fall from the sky. It falls into conversation, into daily plans, into memory. It is not background noise. It is an event.
And we treat it as such.
Growing up—or even living for just a few months—in Ethiopia teaches you to respect the rain. No, more than that: to make room for it. It is not unusual for an entire day to be restructured around whether or not it “might” rain. A late lunch is postponed, a taxi is delayed, and an outdoor market is wrapped up in a flurry of blue tarps and plastic covers. And there’s never really frustration about it, either. Not the way you might hear in cities obsessed with timekeeping. Instead, people shrug. Smile, even. Because here, rain is never just an inconvenience. It’s a blessing.
For a country whose roots run deep in the soil—agriculturally, culturally, spiritually—the symbolism of rain is obvious. It waters the barley, the teff, and the coffee trees. It softens the hills after dry months. It keeps the land alive. But more than that, it holds something tender for the soul. There’s a sacredness in the way the rain slows everything down. The world grows quieter, softer, and gentler. And in a culture that has seen plenty of hardship, rain reminds us that something beautiful can still fall from above.
There’s also something wonderfully theatrical about how Ethiopians interact with it. I once saw an older woman, in the middle of Bole, lift the hem of her gabi just slightly and run into the rain like a child escaping school bells. There was no umbrella, no hurry. Just the lightness of a moment well-received. Elsewhere, I’ve seen teenagers huddle under small storefront awnings, strangers offering space with the kind of unspoken hospitality that makes you think, yes, this is home. And inside homes, tea is made, candles are sometimes lit, and families speak in quieter tones—as if not to interrupt the sky doing its thing.
Of course, it can be disruptive. You learn quickly not to wear suede shoes during the rainy season. Streets flood, and cabs become scarce. That little corner that sells the best sambusa might be closed until further notice. But even in that, there’s grace. We learn to live in rhythm with something bigger than us. Rain gives us permission to pause. To be late. To rest. To think. And in a city that is always moving, where construction cranes pierce the skyline and ambition hums through every hallway, rain still has the power to slow us down and ask—softly, insistently—what really matters today?
And maybe that’s why it feels so sacred.
In Western magazines, rain is often romanticized—the kind you watch from windowpanes in a loft apartment, sipping coffee in slow motion. Here, it's less curated, more felt. It's the joy of finally hearing it drum on a tin roof after weeks of dryness. It's mothers quietly praying over their children’s food as they thank God for rain. It’s lovers sharing one umbrella while walking down the old cobblestone of Piassa. It’s elders telling stories about famines once broken by a long-awaited storm. In Ethiopia, rain carries history.
And just like that, it becomes more than weather. It becomes a story. It becomes presence.
So if you ever find yourself in Addis when the clouds begin to gather—don’t rush. Let yourself be part of the pause. Let the rain write its rhythm into your afternoon. You might just find that beneath the gray sky, Ethiopia shows you one of its softest, most intimate sides.
And in a world that moves too fast, that alone feels like a gift worth receiving.