When Helen Bete received her first crochet order—a tiny hat with matching booties for a newborn—she felt a spark that never faded. At the time, she was a fifth-year university student looking for a way to fill spare hours. Crochet itself was no novelty: she had learned the skill as a child from her mother, who made intricate lace known locally as dantel. But this was the first time she understood that the threads in her hands could weave not only garments but also a living.
Crochet in Ethiopia has a long, quiet lineage. For generations, women crafted sofa covers, tablecloths, doilies and baby clothes as part of daily life. The skill passed from mother to daughter, decorating homes and preserving memory. Handmade gifts for newborns—a blanket, a sweater, a delicate hat—conveyed a warmth store-bought items rarely matched. It was a domestic art of utility and connection, nurturing family ties while carrying a cultural thread forward.
“I remember my very first order clearly,” Helen recalls. “It was for a crocheted hat and shoes for a baby. I was so excited.”
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What began as a sideline has grown into Kirosh Fashion, a small but vibrant business run largely on TikTok and Instagram. Helen admits the path has not been easy. Like many artisans, she faces skepticism from people who see handmade work as old-fashioned or balk at prices compared with factory clothing. “Some people think crochet is just our grandmothers’ dantel and don’t understand the value of handmade work,” she says.
Yet perceptions are shifting. More customers are learning that a handmade sweater—one that may take a week to produce—cannot be measured against a machine-made garment. Crochet remains seasonal—scarves and sweaters in the cold months, children’s costumes around Christmas—but it has become steady enough to sustain her. She completes about 10 orders a month, calling in temporary helpers when demand spikes.
If Helen’s story is one of gradual growth, Nuhamin Getnet shows how far crochet can go when treated as a full-fledged business. Like Helen, she learned from her grandmother, whose home overflowed with dantel sofa covers and tablecloths. But Nuhamin, inspired by designs on Pinterest, saw crochet as a platform for fashion rather than a pastime.
Under her label Nuha’s Creation, she now produces toys, clothing, gowns and blankets full-time, employing two assistants to keep up with orders. Crochet, she explains, is painstaking: a short gown takes a week; a full gown three; blankets and sofa covers up to a month. Yet demand hasn’t slowed. “Around 10 to 16 orders per week,” she says — enough to earn 40,000 to 60,000 birr a month.
Her biggest challenge isn’t demand but materials. Imported yarns, often from China, fray and wear quickly. She prefers the locally produced “dantel kir,” the same thread her grandmother once used. “They’re stronger, don’t snag easily and actually get better with every wash,” she says.
Ethiopia’s crochet industry, Nuhamin believes, is still in its infancy. But with better raw materials and broader appreciation for handmade craft, it could grow far beyond its current limits.
Crochet also drew in a new generation of hobbyists during the pandemic.
In a quiet corner of Addis Abab, Eleni Leulseged, a mother of two and a full-time social worker, discovered crochet during the COVID-19 lockdowns. Stuck at home, she turned to YouTube tutorials and launched a Facebook page called Ethiopian Crochet. Her first creations were face masks lined with fabric — practical, decorative and timely. Soon came sweaters, scarves, dresses and cardigans.
Eleni never set out to build a business. When visiting relatives with newborns, she simply made gifts herself instead of buying them. People admired the handmade pieces, and soon relatives began requesting their own. Encouraged, she opened a Telegram channel to showcase her work. Word spread. In colder months, she sometimes earned as much as 5,000 birr a month in profit — all while managing her office job and raising two children.
But crochet is demanding. “Crochet makes you sit for long hours, which can affect your health,” she says. To cope, she scaled back her orders, though her passion hasn’t dimmed. “It becomes addictive,” she adds. “Even if what I’m making won’t be sold, you’ll always see me with crochet in my hands. My hands crave it. Crochet has become a part of me.”
For Eleni, the appeal goes beyond income. “Crochet is a very good thing. I love it very much. It even works as meditation. Your hands are weaving the threads, but your mind is free — it lets you think, reflect, listen to yourself.” Her output ranges from headbands and toys to bags and stuffed fruits. “There is nothing that cannot be done with crochet,” she says.
If Helen and Nuhamin show how crochet can become a full-time enterprise, Eleni demonstrates how it can coexist with another career. And Ruth Solomon represents the newest wave — fast learners who found the craft through social media.
An accounting graduate, Ruth picked up crochet about four months ago after leaving her job. Her mother crocheted, but Ruth never imagined she would. Then YouTube and TikTok began feeding her tutorials and ideas. “It’s not simple,” she says. “But once you start learning and practicing, you realize it is something that can be done. It requires patience.”
Within a month, she had taught herself enough to make clothes for her sisters and nieces. Orders followed, first from family and then through Instagram, TikTok and Telegram under the name Crochets by Ruta. Ruth prices her crafts to reflect their time-intensive nature: long gowns sell for 4,000–4,500 birr, medium gowns for 3,000–3,500 birr.
Demand is growing, particularly among young people who no longer see crochet as just sofa covers or TV cloths but as tops, sweaters — even beachwear. Still, Ruth is cautious. “For me, not yet. Until it grows, you need supplementary income. But once it expands, and you have regular customers and bulk orders, yes, it can be a full-time living.”
Across these stories, three themes emerge. First, patience: whether it’s a scarf or a gown, crochet demands time, devotion and steady hands. Second, perception: crocheters continually push back against the notion that handmade goods should be cheap, even when their quality rivals — or exceeds — boutique fashion. And third, connection: for each of these women, crochet threads back to memories of mothers and grandmothers, reviving skills once common in Ethiopian households.
“In today’s world, where everything is rushed and technology-driven, seeing people sit down and patiently crochet reminds us of how our grandmothers and mothers used to spend their time,” Helen says. “Customers tell us these pieces remind them of their past.”
But crochet is no longer only about nostalgia. It is also about possibility — about building businesses, sustaining families and placing Ethiopian creativity on the global fashion stage. Ruth dreams of seeing her work on international runways. Eleni has watched foreigners admire it at local exhibitions. Helen believes investment could help it scale. And Nuhamin already proves it can generate incomes comparable to established trades.
Together, their stories show that crochet in Ethiopia is not a relic but a revival — a living craft stitching together past and future. The same threads that once lined sofas and tables now shape gowns, sweaters and livelihoods. In their hands, crochet has moved from the household corner to the marketplace, from memory to modernity, binding generations with every loop and knot.
