I noticed my father worries whenever I sit on the computer for a long time. He studies my screen, my hunched body, my tired eyes; the screen doesn’t change much except for zooming in and out. Last Tuesday, he asked: “Why don’t you join the mayor’s office?”
“Why?” I replied.
“You won’t have to work this much,” he said.
I knew what he meant. Not the workload, but the security. I told him no. I am not a fan of bureaucracy. I didn’t fully know the meaning of the word, but it captured what I feel whenever I deal with government offices.
I remembered the stairs I took at the revenue office to make a simple payment. The transport office, where a clerk shoved me and ignored my questions. The passport office, where a long line of people waited, with no one to guide them through the process. The Woreda offices. The endless waiting.
I didn’t dare to explain these images of public offices I had in my mind. At least I teach at a public school. I heard stories of finance officers who delay payments until they get their share. Nothing more.
Today it happened to me. I was at the mercy of an old officer who tried to humiliate me in front of his secretary, while strangers watched and controlled the narrative and the project.
I walked away perplexed, crossing dusty roads and wet ground. I realized how the Ethiopian system has limited the potential of many youth. Bureaucracy and gatekeeping stand as barriers to individual creativity and a country’s development. They entrench unfit officials and breed frustration.
In theory, bureaucracy is simply an administrative system with hierarchy and rules designed to ensure order. That is what textbooks say. But in practice, bureaucracy, if unchecked, creates gatekeeping. It controls access, decides who enters, who succeeds and who moves forward. Combined with corruption, it becomes a machine of exclusion.
The historian Frederick Cooper once described Africa as a continent of “gatekeeper states,” where a narrow ruling class sits at the channels of wealth, controlling how resources and benefits flow. That description is not abstract to me. I live it daily.
Excessive red tape. The Ethiopian bureaucracy is known for its unclear procedures and policies with loopholes. Some even see it as a deliberate tool for corruption. Registering a business can take dozens of steps and inordinate delays. What should encourage initiative instead of killing it? The process itself discourages people from even trying. Many turn to bribery just to “get things done.”
Loyalty over expertise. When loyalty, family ties, or ethnic affiliation become the basis of appointments, those with merit and competence suffer. Their advice is dismissed when it conflicts with political directives. Some leave altogether, taking their skills to international organizations or the private sector, leaving behind a weaker system.
Economic consequences. The results are clear when compared with our neighbors. Rwanda, for decades, worked to cut red tape, digitize services, and reward performance. By 2023, it sat at 38th in the World Bank’s Ease of Doing Business index. Ethiopia, on the other hand, fell behind, ranked 161st. Investors here complain about the difficulty of obtaining licenses, repatriating profits, and dealing with heavy state involvement in the economy. The friction has caused youth to stop believing that starting a business or owning property is possible without personal connections.
Corruption and frustration. Ethiopia’s 37/100 score on the 2024 Corruption Perceptions Index reflects the public frustration I hear everywhere. Low transparency makes the bureaucracy fertile ground for exploitation. Officials use red tape as an excuse to demand facilitation fees for everything, including document authentication, a building permit, or the sale of property.
The Human Cost. Bureaucratic gatekeeping not only wastes time. It kills initiative. Ambitious youth either give up or look abroad. Those who remain slowly adapt to mediocrity, humiliation, and the habit of lowering expectations.
I felt that cost today when an old man at the office door held the power to humiliate me, to decide whether my work could live or die. It was not about the gate; it was about the system that allowed him to become its face. I cooperated with the disrespect just to survive another day and see my project live.
Africa does not need more offices and rules. It needs systems that reward competence and service. It needs officials chosen for skill, not for loyalty or bloodline. Africa needs more clarity.
Bureaucracy should protect, not block fairness and progress.
If Ethiopia is serious about change, it must act on the red tape. It should digitize services, punish gatekeeping, and make merit the only path to office. Payments must be transparent, decisions tracked, and delays punished. Youth should not beg at gates; they should walk through them with their ideas.
My father was right about one thing. A government office offers security. But it is the security of routine, not the security of creation. For those who want to build and innovate, this kind of security is a prison.
If bureaucracy continues to be a platform for gatekeeping rather than service, who will still dare to create?
