A woman buying two kilograms of onions at a neighborhood grocery store in Addis Ababa had already paid 80 Birr when she realized she had forgotten to bring a bag.
“I’m not used to bringing bags from home yet,” she admitted, glancing at the vendor.
Her mistake meant she had to shell out another 80 Birr for a small woven bag.
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“I just bought the onions, now I’m buying a bag for almost the same price. I hope I don’t forget again,” she said, leaving the store with her groceries.
Only weeks after Ethiopia’s plastic carry bag ban came into force on January 31, 2026, scenes like this are playing out across the capital. Forced to reckon with the absence of once-ubiquitous bags, residents have turned to creative ways to carry their shopping.
Humorous videos circulating on social media show people using baskets, netting, pieces of cloth, and even jerrycans as makeshift shopping bags.
Behind the amusement, however, lies uncertainty about what will replace the plastic bags that were once so heavily relied on.
Authorities frame the ban as a necessary environmental intervention aimed at curbing pollution, protecting waterways, and reducing the long-term ecological damage caused by plastic waste.
But on the ground, the transition is reshaping consumer habits, business models, and industrial livelihoods in ways that are still unfolding.
At a cosmetics and beauty products shop near Arat Kilo, customers have begun purchasing decorative gift bags, typically reserved for special occasions, simply to carry everyday purchases.
“These are gift bags,” the shop owner explained. “They range from 350 Birr for the smallest size to 750 or even 800 Birr for larger ones. But some people are buying them just to carry cosmetics.”
She sources brown paper bags from Merkato, selling them at cost to patrons.
“We buy them for 30 birr and sell them for 30 birr so customers can carry their items,” she said. “But they are not strong enough for heavy products.”
For some consumers, the concern extends beyond cost. The woman at the grocery store recalled buying meat wrapped in newspaper.
“The newspaper got wet. Some meat stuck to it. It did not look hygienic,” she said. “There’s also the ink. I don’t know if that’s healthy.”
At a nearby bakery, an elderly customer carried bread in a black non-woven bag he purchased for 10 Birr. It tore before he reached home, less than ten minutes away.
“I had to hold it together so the bread would not fall,” he said.
He does not oppose the ban itself. “If the authorities did deep research and found that these plastics were harmful or toxic, then it is good that they are banned,” he said. “I am not a researcher. I cannot know more than they do. But it would have been better if there were suitable substitute products for every type of item, we Ethiopians are used to carrying with plastic.”
Across the city, non-woven bags are widely visible despite regulatory statements that such materials fall within restricted categories under the proclamation. At Merkato, thick non-woven fabric sells for between 120 and 130 Birr per meter, while finished bags are supplied wholesale at around 21 to 24 Birr per piece. Paper bags are also circulating, ranging from roughly 15 Birr to 50 Birr depending on size, though traders say they are unsuitable for heavier goods.
The Solid Waste Management and Disposal Proclamation defines plastic packaging as a wrap or container made of plastic and used by manufacturers to protect goods from contamination or from mixing with other substances.
Under this proclamation, the use of plastic packaging for food items, household goods, laundry services, and other products is permitted. However, the collection, handling, and disposal of such packaging must be regulated in accordance with the proclamation and its subsequent implementing directives.
The market appears to be responding quickly. Whether it is responding coherently remains another question.
The Industrial Toll
For manufacturers, the consequences have been profound. Bereket Gebrehiwet, a board member of the Ethiopian Plastic and Rubber Manufacturers Association and head of its proclamation response committee, says the sector had warned about unintended outcomes.
“Items entering the country through contraband trade are now taking over the market, such as non-woven bags,” he told The Reporter Magazine.
He described non-woven material as plastic disguised as fabric.
“It looks like cloth, but it is plastic. It is dusty, particles can stick to items, and it is not eco-friendly. It is also not affordable. People are paying between 40 and 70 Birr for a bag,” said Bereket.
He added that authorities had previously suggested containers made from fiber and plant-based materials as substitutes. “
We told them at the time that this would not work for large-scale transactions in today’s era. We raised this concern from the beginning,” said Bereket.
Prior to the ban, more than 800 registered plastic packaging manufacturers were operating across the country. They were granted a six-month window to transition out of the now illegal business. Bereket argues the timeframe was insufficient.
“Building or shifting an industry is not something you do in six months,” he said. “It requires planning and support.”
Transitioning into a new manufacturing field is highly capital-intensive. When asked how much of the industry’s existing machinery could be modified to produce alternatives, he was unequivocal.
“It is zero,” he said. “There is no technical possibility. You cannot harvest teff if you sow barley. Machines designed for plastic packaging cannot suddenly produce substitute materials. The only outcome we will see is that these machines become obsolete and eventually disposed of.”
A Vanishing Investment
For Elham, a former plastic packaging manufacturer, the policy shift has been devastating.
“I started this business four years ago through lease financing,” she told The Reporter Magazine. “The total investment was 11 million Birr. I contributed 20 percent, and the rest was financed.”
She employed 21 permanent workers and had repaid nearly 75 percent of her loan when the ban took effect.
“We were just reaching the stage where we hoped to be profitable,” she said. “Now, even if I finish paying the loan, I will have a factory that cannot operate. It is no longer an asset.”
The personal cost of the closure is heavy.
“Before entering this business, I worked many other jobs. All the money I earned before, I invested here. Everything vanished. All those years of work are gone,” Elham told The Reporter Magazine.
Banks continue to demand repayment.
“They say repayment is my obligation,” she said. “They do not consider that operations have ceased.”
Production had slowed months before enforcement as customers anticipated the ban and stopped placing orders.
“There is factory rent, house rent, food expenses,” she said. “I laid off my workers and paid compensation. How do I cover all this when I am not working?”
Some manufacturers used their homes as collateral.
“They are receiving letters from banks. Imagine losing your factory and then your residence,” said Elham.
From a consumer perspective, she also questions the substitutes now circulating.
“We see newspapers used to wrap food. We do not know where they were stored. Ink can transfer. We see non-woven bags reappearing. We do not know how they were handled,” said Elham.
She believes clearer communication about permitted alternatives might have allowed manufacturers to prepare.
“If authorities had clearly specified which materials were allowed, we would have tried to produce them,” said Elham, noting she did not benefit from any of the support mechanisms that were reportedly in official discourse. “We hear that there were mechanisms prepared to support us, but we have not seen anything,.”
She emphasized that manufacturing is not an easy line of work to get into.
“Setting up a plant is not like opening a small shop. You must invest in electricity, water, infrastructure, machinery, and employees. It takes years before you become productive,” said Elham.
If the policy cannot be reversed, she suggests financial restructuring.
“Banks could at least provide extended long-term loans with lower deposit requirements,” she said. “Instead of requiring 20 percent upfront, maybe five percent. That could help us restart in another field.”
She also called for tax relief on new machinery imports to allow struggling operators to transition.
The Environmental Mandate
The environmental rationale behind the ban is rooted in long-term protection. Ethiopia’s National Plastic Waste Management Strategy (2024–2034) identifies plastic waste as a growing threat, linking it to water pollution, drainage blockage, and ecosystem degradation.
The strategy estimates that the country consumes between 280,000 and 300,000 tons of plastic annually, with single-use plastics accounting for roughly 70 percent of total consumption.
The strategy sets targets to phase out identified single-use plastic items by 2026, reduce others by 25 percent by 2028, and increase recycling rates from less than 10 percent to 25 percent over the coming years.
Yet the early phase of implementation reflects the complexity of translating environmental ambition into market reality. Consumers are adjusting to new habits, often at a higher cost. Vendors are improvising. Manufacturers are closing up shop. Workers are losing livelihoods, while financial obligations remain unchanged.
In the absence of universally accepted and affordable substitutes, informal and contested alternatives are filling the vacuum. The plastic ban may ultimately reduce environmental harm, but its initial implementation underscores a broader challenge: aligning environmental policy with market readiness, consumer behavior, and industrial transition.
Between policy and practice, it is the people who carry the weight.
