Billboards Are the New Skyline – How Giant Ads Are Reshaping Cairo

CairoScene

06-06-2025

At 9:14 AM, Cairo's Ring Road glows not with sunlight, but with 12 consecutive digital billboards advertising luxury compounds, soft drinks, and tuition fees that could rival Swiss universities. At one stretch, you're promised 'a home where harmony lives.' Two metres later: 'You Are Unique,' a validating sentiment that turns out to be an ad for a bank – a call to customise your mortgage, curate your credit score, and optimise your escape. It's the kind of affirmation that sells not just security, but a story: in a global economy where groceries feel aspirational, financial self-actualisation becomes the new moral high ground. (The joke's on us, of course. There is no exit plan that doesn't involve collective salvation. And as Donne warned, no man is an island – certainly not on the Ring Road.)
In 2024, Egypt spent EGP 6.3 billion on out-of-home advertising, up 53% from the previous year. The country now supports one of the fastest-growing billboard markets in the Middle East. And the sector isn't done yet. According to AdMazad, Egypt's leading out-of-home (OOH) advertising performance measurement company, total impressions reached 154.2 billion last year, largely concentrated in Cairo's arterial roads and desert-ringed satellite cities. In some places, there is now more advertising space than visible sky. 'Billboards are a steady source of revenue,' Assem Memon, CEO of AdMazad, an Egyptian agency dedicated to tracking and analysing thousands of billboards across the country to measure their performance, tells CairoScene. 'Local authorities and municipalities rely on them to generate cashflow.'
Egypt has turned its cities into a showroom, and its streets into a psychology experiment. But I'm here to make a case for – as well as against – the perpetual billboard. And that starts at the beginning.
The idea for billboards began slowly in Egypt. First, as movie posters, as Nasserist propaganda promising Pan-Arabist heaven, cupping therapy offers, cure-all creams, and home exorcisms available – if you call now. Then as static signs hawking juice brands or local banks. Then came vinyl real estate giants along 6 October Bridge, animated LEDs near Nasr City, 3D billboards looming overhead. The number of OOH advertisers rose 23% year-on-year to 17,000, while the number of billboards increased 26.6% year-on-year to 40,000, according to Enterprise and AdMazad.
It is clear that billboards in Egypt are more than visual noise, they're a critical financial artery for the country's urban fabric. Advertisers pay a concession fee just to rent the land, and when they build according to regulation, they also pay an annual licensing fee. 'As new roads open up, so do opportunities for billboard placements, Memon explains. 'But when it comes to premium visibility, 6th October and Tagamoa lead the pack. Today, renting a billboard in 6th October costs around 500,000 EGP per month, while the same space in Tagamoa can go for EGP 1 million.'
But what's most striking, Memon notes, is Egypt's advertising imbalance. 'In other emerging markets like Pakistan, Morocco, or Malaysia, real estate usually ranks sixth or seventh in terms of billboard ad share.'In most countries, consumer goods, telecoms, banks, pharmacies, and cafés dominate OOH budgets. 'Here in Egypt,' Memon continues, 'real estate is number one—by far.'
'Real estate alone now accounts for 60% of OOH market share in Egypt, with advertising spend in the sector jumping 85% in a single year,' Engy Elmasry, Account Manager at Seven, tells CairoScene. These figures are based on AdMazad's audit of over 50,000 billboards across Egypt, reflecting the sector's dominance in the OOH advertising landscape.
'These aren't billboards,' Elmasry says. 'They're mood boards. We're selling escape, not space.'
So why is Cairo's skyline a catalogue of gated compounds? 'It's partly economic,' Memon says. 'Currency devaluation has pushed real estate developers into a cycle of building fast, selling fast, and flipping fast. Most of them are small, fragmented players who want to build brand equity, so they flood the streets with ads to build credibility. Projects like 'Skies of Nation' or 'Jiran' want you to remember their name. The economic environment has changed real estate to an investment first product, and with the fragmentation among developers and entry of many first time developers, there is a need to create mass awareness.'
This one-sector dominance has reshaped the OOH ecosystem. 'Product development in the ad industry now prioritises real estate,' Memon explains. 'It's all about targeting high-traffic highways like Mehwar and the Ring Road—not dense, lived-in neighbourhoods like Mohandiseen or Agouza.' The result? Billboards in older Cairo are vanishing, even though most Egyptians still live there.
The consequences go beyond visibility. 'Imagine running a small shoe brand,' Memon says. 'You can't afford a single board in New Cairo or 6 October. The new outdoor inventory is primarily designed for real estate and mega advertisers. The unintended consequence of this is the limitation of advertising opportunities for smaller brands.'
If billboard access were more equitable, Memon argues, it wouldn't just benefit small businesses—it would expand the industry as a whole. 'When different businesses at different maturity stages can access outdoor ads, you unlock new verticals. It's not about shrinking the real estate footprint—it's about sharing the skyline.'
The challenge is ensuring that billboards don't morph into 'a visual zoo,' in Memon's words. His vision? 'Stronger regulation. One billboard every 500 metres. Limit the number of formats per zone. And for digital screens—especially at night—there needs to be serious scrutiny. They're beautiful, but they're also distracting.'
In that sense, billboards don't just reflect Cairo. They define it. To understand Egypt's billboard boom is to understand the country's post-2011 psyche – fractured, aspirational, and fixated on visibility. The billboard has taken on a strange dual role, at once commercial and quasi-political. It is one of the loudest voices in the city. This is no accident. In 2020, Law 208 established a national authority to regulate billboard content, safety, and location. But its real function seems to be coordination, not restraint. Some areas, like the Ring Road and Sheikh Zayed, now show 94% and 91% billboard utilisation, respectively. In contrast, older districts like Maadi and Dokki are being bypassed – both literally and commercially.
It's a visual map of power and capital. The old city is fading. The desert is the future.
There is, however, a strong case for billboards – and it's not just aesthetic nihilism.
Egypt's economy is in need of any growth sector that isn't tethered to global instability. 'Out-of-home advertising creates jobs, fuels creative industries, and, unlike many online ads, cannot be skipped or blocked,' Hana Amgad, Account Manager at Kijami, tells CairoScene.
Studies show that 71% of drivers notice billboards, and nearly 50% of them engage with the content. For real estate developers, education providers, and telecom giants, billboards offer unmatched reach.
More importantly, they offer permanence. In a digital world of disappearing stories and algorithmic noise, a giant, backlit promise by the highway still feels real. It occupies space.
Over time, billboards have done more than advertise – they've embedded themselves into the semiotic structure of Cairo's urban life, anchoring the city's mental geography. Directions are given not by street names but by reference to giant LED screens: meet 'under the big Samsung,' turn 'at the Pepsi ad.' These aren't anomalies – they're a system. In a city marked by infrastructural fragmentation and visual overload, billboards offer a kind of consistency.
Cairo orients itself through these billboards. They've become, in effect, part of the city's spatial memory – a hyper-commercial layer overlaid on top of a civic one.
Yet for all their commercial appeal, Egypt's billboard culture has begun to swallow its cities. The deeper damage is psychological. These billboards offer not just commodities, but class identity. The images are consistent: manicured lawns, bilingual children. A villa in the desert with a golf course becomes not just a home, but a personality upgrade.
The problem? Most people can't afford it. According to CAPMAS, the average Egyptian family in an urban centre spends 12.5% of their annual income on education alone. Meanwhile, kindergarten fees in many of the schools featured on roadside ads range between EGP 80,000 and EGP 160,000 a year. And that's before factoring in uniform fees, transport, and the subliminal cost of social conformity.
The billboard is more than an ad. It is a border. It announces who belongs where. Architectural researcher Mohamad Abotera refers to this as a 'reproduction of space,' where the advertisers use visuals to redefine what Egypt looks like and who it is for. His study of real estate billboards in Cairo found that 79% featured elements of greenery, lakes, or imported nature. Many used European trees and landscapes foreign to Egyptian terrain. Some are even superimposed Los Angeles cityscapes. 'These are not metaphors. They are market segmentation strategies,' Elmasry tells CairoScene.
It would be comical if it weren't so costly. To create these promised utopias in the desert, developers divert water from already stretched resources. In New Cairo, the per capita access to green space in gated communities is 216 sqm. In social housing nearby, it's 26 sqm. In older Cairo districts like Shubra, it's less than 0.1 sqm.
The simulation is relentless. Despite all this, billboards endure – for good reason. Ultimately, they're the most democratic form of elite messaging. Memon is far from bearish on billboards. 'Traditional advertising isn't dead. It's evolving.' He points to a Nielsen study that found combining billboards with digital ads boosts message amplification by 60%. 'When London banned candy ads on public transport, sales of those products dropped 60%. That's how powerful outdoor media still is.'
'You don't need a phone, a data plan, or an algorithm to be reached. You just need to exist in public,' Amgad explains. And in that sense, the billboard becomes a curious sort of civic document. It shows you what the state, or at least the market, thinks Egypt should look like. And for all their distortions, billboards can also inspire. A clever campaign. A moment of colour on a grey commute. A family glimpsing a different future – even if it's unattainable.
Egypt is in the midst of an identity shift. The post-revolution euphoria has long faded, replaced by infrastructural overhauls, capital migration to the desert, and a public increasingly anxious about where it belongs. In this context, billboards are not the disease. They are the symptom – and sometimes, the distraction. They represent both Egypt's most sincere ambitions and its deepest contradictions. They are monuments to optimism and inequality. And they are built to last.
The question is not whether the billboards will change. It's whether Cairo will – or whether it will continue to be a city that cannot see itself, only the version sold back to it at 1080p, three storeys high, and payable in 100 monthly installments.