Built from Dust: My Father’s Fight to Make a Living in Post-Apartheid South Africa

At the edge of a township called Khayelitsha, just outside Cape Town, my father built a business with his bare hands. He sold building materials: zinc sheets, timber, ceiling boards, nails—items used to erect the very homes our neighbours lived in. It wasn’t glamorous. But it was honest work, and it kept food on our table.

His name is Lindile Lennox Damba, and in 2005, more than a decade after the official end of apartheid, he became a street vendor. This was not the kind of entrepreneurial dream often romanticised in boardrooms or business schools. My father sold goods beneath a makeshift structure in Site B, a part of Khayelitsha characterised by informal housing. The stalls were basic.  The work, gruelling. The profits, modest and unpredictable. But for my father—and many like him—it was all they had in a country still wrestling with the legacy of systemic exclusion.

My father grew up in the Eastern Cape, in the rural village of Engcobo. Like many young black South Africans during apartheid, he was forced to leave home in search of work. He moved to Cape Town and lived in community halls in Langa, a township where police raids were frequent and random. These early experiences under apartheid not only shaped his perspective but also reinforced the harsh realities of segregation.

After the end of apartheid in 1994, my father’s entrepreneurial journey began in 2005 when he started selling building materials. While apartheid had officially ended, its lingering effects were still strongly felt by most black South Africans, like my father. The fundamental barriers he faced as a street vendor were rooted in a lack of access to financial resources and the legal documentation required to sell in more urban, affluent areas. He was restricted to selling within the township, particularly in areas like Site B in Khayelitsha, where we lived. Other areas, which were predominantly white or colored, remained off-limits. Even post-apartheid, Black vendors were still relegated to the bottom of the social and economic ladder.

One challenging moment occurred when my father began selling near a police station. Not long after, buildings and a wall were erected to separate vendors from the area. Urban development, under the guise of progress, forced vendors like my father onto the pavements, leaving them with limited space to conduct their businesses. The government’s approach to such redevelopment projects often neglected any consultation with the vendors, further marginalising their businesses.

In Site B, my father first set up his stall in an area known as K Section—a space of corrugated iron and dust.  When the government moved to redevelop the land and build houses, he and other vendors were displaced once more. This forced relocation meant he had to rebuild his customer base from scratch, often within the same impoverished community. His customers were mostly Black and poor, people from neighbouring shacks. With no access to more affluent customers, his business had little room for growth.

One of the biggest challenges my father faced was transportation. He didn’t own a car, so he hired a van to transport stock. Sometimes, the van wasn’t available, and he would wait days. This left him stressed, knowing that at home, there was no food, and his family relied on the profits from his sales. He would often dip into the business funds to buy essentials, depleting both his stock and earnings. This made planning, let alone expansion, nearly impossible.

The limitations weren’t only financial. Like many others, my father couldn’t formalise his business. Registration requires identification, proof of residence, and evidence of business activity—documents that many township residents simply don’t have. People living in informal structures are not recognised by the state as legitimate residents. This lack of documentation bars vendors from opening bank accounts or applying for loans. Most transactions were cash-based, meaning there was no formal record, another barrier to support or credit. Street vendors are integral to the South African economy, providing essential goods despite numerous barriers. For instance, a close family friend, a woman in her early 50s, has spent over two decades selling oranges, apples, and vegetables on the street. Her day starts at 4 a.m. On good days, she earns over R500. On bad days, barely R200 to support a family of five. Yet she finds dignity in her work.

“It gives me pride to know that my work keeps food on the table,” she often says. School children passing by regularly stop to buy fruit from her, forming part of her loyal customer base. She dreams of collaborating with local schools to supply fresh produce, but her efforts remain invisible to local authorities.

Another example: a man in his 60s, a long-time member of the Methodist church where my father worships, has sold meat for over 20 years. During school holidays, he can make up to R1000. But without registration, he cannot rent a stable space or secure financial aid.

“I’ve been stuck in the same position for years,” he says, reflecting on how his circumstances have kept him from moving forward. Despite his hard work, he remains trapped in a cycle of poverty, with little hope of retirement.

Today, street vendors still face many of the same barriers my father dealt with, though their forms have evolved. While apartheid-era laws are no longer explicit, new challenges—financial exclusion, lack of education and training, and criminal extortion—now dominate.

One of the most troubling issues is the ‘protection fees’ demanded by local gangsters. Vendors are forced to pay exorbitant sums—some as high as R4000 a month—to avoid harassment or robbery. Though the vendors know the individuals behind these demands or those connected to them, they are unable to provide proof due to fear of retaliation. This exploitation persists because there is little recourse or protection for those who refuse to comply. Local police rarely patrol those areas, and when vendors report crimes, the lack of evidence or witnesses means that little or nothing is done. In some cases, there are no police vans available to respond at all.

Government support remains minimal. Many programmes aimed at supporting small businesses require a matric certificate (Grade 12), a document that most vendors do not have because they never finished high school. The training centres are often located in cities, far from the townships. Transport costs alone make them inaccessible.

As a result, many vendors remain stuck. The competition for customers in the townships is fierce. Unemployment is widespread. The gap between the rich and the poor widens daily. Poverty affects not only the vendors’ ability to expand but also their mental and emotional well-being.

The absence of formal support is not just an economic issue—it’s a social wound that deepens inequality. Many young people are caught in the cycle of poverty, with little access to education or job opportunities. Many of them turn to crime or drugs.  Others, like my father once did, try to make an honest living through street vending, only to face the same hardships: financial instability, lack of institutional support from the government, and ever-present fear.

My father’s business, which he ran for over a decade, came to an end in 2019 when he retired. He now lives on social grants and support from my sister, a social worker. He still visits Khayelitsha. The pavements are still filled with vendors. He does not recognise most of them. But he hopes—quietly, stubbornly—that their stories will end differently.

This story was first published on Minority Africa and appears with permission in this publication.

Byline: Liziwe Damba

Published on: 18/06/2025

Edited/Reviewed by PK Cross, Caleb Okereke, Awom Kenneth and Uzoma Ihejirika.

Illustrated by Rex Opara.