Dear Piazza,

I need to talk to you now, before we stop recognizing each other. Do you know that of all the places in Addis Ababa, you have helped me the most? Would I love this city without your enchanting atmosphere? Would I have met people who became more than friends to me? Perhaps I saw them as kindred souls preciecly because we could all enjoy your mysterious beauty. Where would we meet today? I literally have no idea.

Lately your buildings had fallen into disrepair, your streets had become too welcoming to all manner of weirdos, and even your admirers sometimes found it hard to come and greet you. I used to come on Sundays and explore. Every week I saw something remarkable and cherished a dream – ugly banners and fences being taken down, walls repainted, balconies fortified. What a unique and wonderful city centre it would make, a centre with so many amazing stories to tell.

On this plot of land lived a patriot - fitawrari Yeberta Tsadiq. I don't know much about him, but his son says that this house, with its solarium, was designed and built by the warrior himself.

Visitors frequented another house half a century ago. The woman who ran it was the first in Addis Ababa to have her hair straightened and to learn Western dance styles. It seems to me that Meri Armedie's house was like Fendika today: everyone mingled together and had a lot of fun. I wish I could see the interior. Another lavish compound belonged to qegnazmach Gebreab. On the left side of it lived his son – a poet Yilma Gebreab. More than half of the songs from the Golden Age of Ethiopian Music were based on his lyrics. A man whose words echo in the hearts of millions – doesn’t he deserve a museum? At least a room with his desk and handwritings? I would be thrilled to visit it.

Elaborately built villa belong to an Armenian Avedis Sevadjan. It was here that his son-in-law opened a modern laboratory - Arsho. They now have branches all over the city, but this sturdy red brick building was probably the first one.

Rising high above the single-storey constructions stood the prominent house of another Armenian – an architect Minas Kherbekian. Cloths constantly line drying on the upper balcony made it look homely and inviting. Once I found a pigeon-house in it and thought about getting some birds. As I walked past it, I thought it was too respectable to be demolished, I wouldn't even worry about it. Have you lost this too, Piazza? Would the pigeons return to this sad sight?

Unexpectedly, I saw your streets in a turmoil: overloaded Isuzu trucks, people caring their belongings, pieces of tin-roofs falling on sidewalks, hammering, hammering… Your old dweller told me she wanted to remain in her house to protect it, but bulldozers wouldn't stop. She was proud that the old villa was well-maintained and clean, and wanted me to get in. She asked me to take more pictures, to speak for them. Confused, I visited her beloved home and hurried away.

My knowledge of you is superficial, only a few random walks through your streets have taught me these stories, and I know they could tell me so much more. With your residents scattered all over Addis Ababa, where am I going to learn them? With your houses reduced to rubble, what would trigger memories of the past?

Is this a fair price to pay for development? Couldn't the necessary change take place in a more organic way? Dear Piazza, with all my hopes for your bright future, it's hard for me to see, how I would relate to you afterwards.