The information published on this website is not intended to provide any health, wellness, or medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment of any kind. You should not take any action before consulting with a licensed healthcare professional.

• Jump to author Cole Brown's guide to Addis, Ethiopia

TO UBER DRIVERS, dates, and deliverymen, my home is a structure of stucco and stone in, at various times, Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, D.C., or Sydney, Australia. But the place I’m tied to by something other than postage — my true home — is Addis Ababa, Ethiopia.

Upon leaving the country in 2018, I said my goodbye to Grandpa Deme as though it was my last. He was feeble then. I expected to return to visit within the year, but a single day can be a lifetime for the bedridden. Grandma Marta was still able-bodied, but her mental faculties showed signs of wear. Who knew what my time away would bring for them both?

What followed was a pandemic, and political unrest, and life, keeping me away from Addis for nearly four years. I came to fear change and my powerlessness in the face of it. Fear of my grandparents’ decline. Fear of Covid blanketing every corner of the country, including Grandpa Deme’s hospital room. Most of all, fear of man.

In November 2020, fighting erupted between the Tigray People’s Liberation Front (TPLF) and the national government over historical ethnic tensions, and continued until a ceasefire was declared in March 2022. Googling Ethiopia produced an endless torrent of the victims — often women and children — alongside headlines proclaiming famine, torture, and ethnic cleansing. But the whole story was hard to grab hold of.

On day one, I connect with my uncle at Addis Fine Art. I discovered the gallery in London months before by stumbling into its booth at the Frieze Art Fair. The owner sold me on the excitement and promise of Ethiopia’s contemporary art scene. I promised a visit. The Addis outpost occupies two adjacent spaces in a soaring, marble-appointed building. All the artists presented here are Ethiopian. A wall of absurdist portraits by Wendimagegn Gashaw Demeke captivates me. His faces cover the gamut of emotion: shame, humor, grief, irony. The figures have high cheekbones and big foreheads. They look like me.

Before dinner, we stop at Mamo Kacha cafe for a macchiato. The place is brimming with beautiful people chatting in animated cries or languid whispers. I can tell my uncle is a regular from the way the barista smiles. A group of four fashionable women with dark eyes and classically elongated Ethiopian frames stroll in, laughing carelessly. We smile at them.

We go to Entoto Bistro that night. The new restaurant shares a space with another art gallery, as well as a cafe and artisan shop. As we wait for our table, we scan the wares. Traditional Ethiopian crafts line the walls: straw baskets, masks, and crucifixes, all ornate and handmade, presented like the fine relics they are. A friend joins us for dinner and points to the Addis movers and shakers dotting the dining room — an executive here, a cabinet minister there. My lamb is tender and delicious. My uncle’s Bolognese is as good as any I’ve ever had.

The following day, I pile into a rented touring van with three strangers — a young Rastafarian, a U.S. army vet, and a former Los Angeles nightclub promoter — for the drive south to Project Mercy in Yetebon. In 1993, Grandma Marta and Grandpa Deme built a community school and clinic in a small country town. It has since expanded to include multiple schools, an orphanage, a farming and cattle breeding project, and a medical college, among other projects. Through years of visits, I matured alongside the kids living there. I can’t come home without visiting the grounds.

After years of fear over change in my country, the story of my homegoing is one of joy, progress, and even indulgence. Let me be clear: it is an undeniable privilege to be able to write such things. This is my story of my journey — not the story of the nation writ large.

As I write this, Ethiopia is plunging into a food crisis that puts millions at risk of starvation. That story should be told. Moreover, it should be acted upon — donations to Save the Children, UNICEF, or Action Against Hunger can help.

But who says tragedy is the only legitimate story we have to tell?

I found an Ethiopia that is trendy, brimming with creative energy and entrepreneurial might. The continent generally, and Ethiopia in particular, is undergoing a renaissance. We deserve to feel a measure of pride, even as we continue the work to improve a truly devastating reality.

Before heading to the airport, I stop one last time by Grandpa Deme’s bedside. Grandma Marta is there as always, looking concerned, whispering prayers. She perks up faintly at my arrival. He sleeps through my visit. Again, I say goodbye to them both as though it is my last. It’s hard to imagine these two 90-somethings persevering until my next homecoming. But I’ve been wrong before.