In many cultures, a common New Year’s tradition involves enjoying a music playlist or a special TV show. This cultural experience may, sometimes, extend beyond national borders, for example, the viewing of the British classic “Dinner for One” in Germany and other European countries on New Year’s Eve. Regardless of location, all cultures have their unique artistic elements that enhance festive celebrations.

There are currently 47 national and regional TV stations, many of which air separate holiday specials on the eve of the day or on the day itself. In the past, entertainment options were limited, and shows like Ben-Hur during Easter Eve were a cherished annual tradition. New Year’s in Ethiopia is a family-oriented occasion, marked by afternoon gatherings to enjoy the holiday special on TV- a mix of interviews, sketches, live music, and interactive games. The vibrant audience, often dressed in colourful attire, added to the lively atmosphere of these sponsored shows held around dining tables, where food and drinks were plentiful.

Memorable moments from these shows include the one when they invited, Tilahun Gessesse, a music giant with over 400 songs and about 50 albums to his name, and his contemporary Tamrat Molla, who, though famous, mostly only did covers, to the same interview session and asked Tamrat to explain why he never recorded a single album. Comedic legends such as Alebachew Teka, Limeneh Bezabeh, Engedazer
Nega (the country’s first female comedian), Dereje and Habte, and Tesfaye Kassa were instrumental in creating unforgettable holiday experiences for viewers, shaping childhood memories that we continue to appreciate.

Or if you preferred your holiday variety shows live, the theatres would invariably have at least one showing during the week, and it is often the recordings of those that we find available online.

In terms of music, Ethiopia, being a multiethnic and multi-religious country, there are thousands to choose from, and multiple New Year celebrations. Despite the now prevalent regional and societal constraints/fragmentations, certain musical pieces manage to transcend these boundaries. Among these works are Tilahun Gessesse’s classics “Ye 13 wer tsega“ and Tewdros Tadesse’s “Meskerem Siteba”, along
with pieces like Eyoha Abebaye, the one most widely known through Aster Aweke. Additionally, noteworthy compositions such as “Awdamet” by Chalachew Tadesse and the perennial favourite “Awdamet” by Tadesse Alemu stand out as enduring examples of music that resonates beyond time as well as regional and societal divisions in Ethiopia.

On New Year’s Day 2018, September 11, 2025, Addis Ababa experienced a somber atmosphere for many residents. The holiday was the first major one for some families who had been relocated due to widespread demolitions earlier in the year. The heavy rains this season also led to flooding in various parts of the city due to inadequate sewage systems.

Moreover, challenges such as devaluation, inflation, and conflict-driven disruptions in key production areas resulted in a scarcity of essential food items, turning holiday essentials into luxury commodities for numerous people. The repercussions were evident in the deserted markets and streets, with retailers struggling to sell their goods even at discounted rates days after the holiday.

In the heart of the city, neighbourhoods like Kazanchis, Piazza, Shiromeda, and Aware have experienced significant changes over the past year, with residential areas vanishing. In my own area, the familiar sights of young girls singing “Abebayehosh” and boys exchanging drawings for treats have disappeared.

While the festive spirit persists, it lacks the vibrancy of the past. Watching old videos, like the video of Tadesse Alemu’s “Awdamet” and nostalgic holiday specials, I wondered whether these recordings would serve as the only remnants of our cherished traditions amidst urban transformations and the relocation of residents to the peripheries.

And perhaps, it is necessary to keep a thorough record of all the holiday practices and traditions in the country, since, in any case, it was natural that traditions grow and mutate. Maybe even for the better if it were not forced.

In some of the old neighbourhoods that still stand, a familiar sight brings comfort, for now: the delicate yellow Adey Abeba (Bidens macroptera) sold in street markets. Unlike the mass-produced plastic flowers from China, a small bundle of 15 of these flowers, priced at 50 birr, holds more value. A notable article by Ayele Addis Ambelu is a heartwarming description of this mysterious flower, once abundant across the
city and country- before concrete pavements, painted fences, and climate shifts.

Despite its significance, as far as I am aware, Adey Abeba remains relatively unexplored in media, academia, and literature, with only passing mentions in works like Mengistu Lemma’s renowned verses. (የመስቀል ወፍና የአደይ አበባ፣ ቀጠሮ እንዳላቸው መስከረም ሲጠባ፣ ማን ያውቃል?). Without forgetting the single Adey flower in the hands of the unforgettable “Meskel Wef”, the painting of Laureate Afeworq Tekle.

But in September 2024, Adam Reta, posted a page-long excerpt from an unpublished manuscript, about the Adey, from which I translate a few lines to conclude on an uplifting tone: “The Adey’s unique force is her power of remembering. […] In the summer, when the sun is shining, it is the eucalyptus, the thorny bushes, the cedar, some stump from some tree, eroded soil, and some pale, yellow grass that fill
the country’s valleys and mountains. At the end of the three-month-long rains, at the dawn of September (Meskerem), even the ground we trampled on suddenly starts blooming with Adey Abeba. Where were all these flowers all those 11 months? We grew up between the two parts/acts of the Adey. The one when she is gone and the one when she is blooming. The Adey Abeba never stays later than the end of September. Some may be seen scattered here and there, but they too disappear soon after. But what do they do before they disappear? […] “Before they disappear, precisely as ascribed to them by the laws and graces of nature, they scatter and spread their seeds wherever they appeared that year. […] These tiny seeds, black as the Niger seeds, lying on the ground, are imperceptible to the human eye and cannot be touched by human hands. Because we can neither see nor touch them, none of us knows whether they exist or not. We walk on them, birds feed on them, and eagles eat them and, with their droppings, throw them back out in far-off, unfamiliar lands…” […] “They wait, thus, for many months, living in silence amidst adversity; and then, at the end of August/Nehase, they burst as gold dews snatched away from the clutches of the destructive torrents of July/Hamle. When they chance upon the right amount of water and humidity, the right wind blows; they come out of their hiding places and bloom with astounding intensity.
This, indeed, is a great gift of memory. The beauty of the Adey lies in her ability to return just as she left. […] I say unto you, be like the Adey Abeba. How many centuries has she begged us to model after her? […] Do we enter, like her, into a covenant that is renewed every year? The distance between the parting and the reappearance of the Adey is not a year, it is not an hour, nor is it a minute; it is the strength to remember. […] Even if we were to end up forgetting her, Adey will always remember us….”