Along United Street in Cosmo City, a row of informal traders mirrors the layout of a shopping centre, with each vendor selling something different: crates of fresh fruit neatly arranged under colourful umbrellas, bundles of raw spinach stacked on plastic tables and braai chicken sizzling on a well-used stand, its surface darkened by layers of grime from meat fried earlier.
In this corner of Cosmo City, as in many townships across the country, entrepreneurial hustle is the order of the day, both out of necessity and ingenuity. Every month, vendors replenish their stock, sometimes with subtle upgrades, such as fresher produce or newly sourced supplies that few notice.
The bustling streets tell a story of fortitude that belies the statistical label of “unemployment” hanging over the country. The unemployment rate sits at a staggering 33% — among the highest in the world — and soars well above 40% when including those who have given up looking for work. By such a measure, Cosmo City’s pavement sellers would be counted among the jobless.
Among the vendors is Themba Shabalala, who is a striking example of those who are anything but idle. For people like Shabalala, this daily hustle is not unemployment — it's survival, self-employment and a vital source of income. They have created a vast “hidden” market where millions of South Africans work outside formal employment. Every sale they make — whether a steaming plate of tripe or a bag of tomatoes — challenges the notion that unemployment means doing nothing.
As Gerrie Fourie, CEO of Capitec, observed in recent weeks, “If we really had a 32% unemployment rate, we would have had unrest. Go to the township — everyone is doing something.”
Every evening, Shabalala can be found on United Street, extension zero, firing up his small braai stand and selling fried chicken wings and food plates to passersby after they finish work for the day.
Cosmo City was set up in the mid-2000s as an ambitious mixed-income development, an attempt to normalise urban living by housing the rich and the poor in one integrated community. It now borders near rows of RDP houses and a shiny mall, but jobs in the formal economy remain scarce for many residents.
Over the years, the township’s growth has attracted those fleeing rural poverty or overcrowded informal settlements, swelling the population faster than formal opportunities can follow. For these newcomers and long-time residents alike, informal trading has become a lifeline.
Born in Paulpietersburg, a small town in KwaZulu-Natal, Shabalala traded circuit boards for cutting boards — leaving an electrical engineering course and a stint at a butchery after the
Covid-19 pandemic-induced lockdown. Today, his grill feeds a small army and employs three people.
“I earn about R25,000 to R30,000 a month and pay each employee about R3,500 after covering expenses and rent. Most of my profit comes from customers buying lunch in the morning and after work,” he said.
Shabalala’s story is far from unique. Townships across the country teem with activity each day, suggesting that the official jobless figures, dire as they are, tell only part of the economic story. Further down the road, the metallic clang of welders shaping steel gates contributes to the daily rhythm — an unmistakable soundtrack of township entrepreneurship. At first glance, the street may seem chaotic, a tapestry of hustle and hard work.
Most informal traders operate on razor-thin margins. A day’s taking might only be a few hundred rand, much of which goes right back to buying stock for the next morning. There are no employment contracts or benefits here — no insurance if goods are stolen, no pension waiting in old age.
It's an ecosystem that is ripe for low-friction financial services innovation — the very ethos that companies such as Capitec built their retail success on. The Capitec CEO’s comments that unemployment is closer to 10% if informal traders are counted exploded into a national conversation last month, blurring the line between survival and self-employment.
Tapiwa Mushakungwa, a Zimbabwean with a sharp eye for gaps in the market, carved out a niche on the pavement outside Cosmo City’s rebranded Shoprite (previously Cambridge, the go-to for affordable fruit.) He once peddled offcuts and packed diapers for a living. Now, he sources grapes straight from Limpopo farms and commands a quieter corner of the township fruit economy.
“No-one was selling grapes around Cosmo City, especially after Cambridge was replaced by Shoprite, which used to sell affordable fruit. I decided to source my stock directly from a farm in Limpopo,” said Mushakungwa.
With seasonal stock rotations and a daily grind behind his car boot-turned-fruit stall, he now earns about R10,000 to R15,000 a month — enough to send money home, pay school fees and keep his entrepreneurial flame burning.
As he speaks, a red Audi pulls up beside his stall. Without missing a beat, he nods towards the driver — a woman he warmly identifies as a regular customer.
Amid the ongoing debate over SA’s true unemployment rate, informal traders are less concerned with statistics and more focused on day-to-day survival, earning enough to sustain their families. Unlike the formal workforce, they operate without the benefits of paid leave or public holidays, relying solely on consistent daily trade to make ends meet.
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