From Job Loss to Job Creator: A Cape Flats Sewing Business Built on Ubuntu

 

Introduction

Three years ago, Nomsa was standing in a retrenchment queue with a letter in her hand and no plan for what came next. Today, her kitchen table has turned into a small sewing collective that pays a wage to eleven other women in her Khayelitsha community, with a waiting list of families hoping to join.

This is not a story about someone being saved. It's a story about a woman who built something with her own hands, in her own street, because nobody else was going to do it for her.

From a Retrenchment Letter to a Waiting List

When the factory Nomsa worked at closed down in Cape Town, she joined thousands of other South African women navigating a job market where women's unemployment consistently runs higher than men's

She didn't wait for a government programme or an NGO intervention. She pulled her old sewing machine out of storage and started taking in alterations from neighbours — school uniforms taken up, work pants taken in, a wedding dress fitted on a tight budget.

Within a year, word had spread. Within two, she had three women working alongside her. Today, the collective:

- Employs eleven women from the surrounding streets on a rotating contract basis
- Produces school uniforms, workwear, and reusable shopping bags for local spaza shops
- Runs a informal mentorship arrangement where experienced seamstresses train newcomers
- Has a waiting list of women asking to join or learn the trade

Why This Isn't Charity

Nomsa is quick to correct anyone who calls her collective a charity. "We are not begging," she says. "We are working. There's a difference."

That distinction matters. Too many stories about township businesses frame the owner as a passive recipient of good fortune rather than the person who built the thing. Nomsa priced her own stock, negotiated her own supplier discounts, and trained her own staff. The only outside support she's accepted is a small stock loan from a local savings club — a stokvel, the same informal savings system that's kept South African communities afloat for generations.

The Ubuntu Behind the Business Model

Ask Nomsa why she pays new trainees while they're still learning — most small businesses wouldn't — and she shrugs. "If my neighbour eats, I eat better too. That's how it's always worked here."

That's ubuntu in practice, not as a slogan but as a business decision. It shows up in small ways:

- Trainees are paid from day one, even while still learning the machines
- Offcuts of fabric are repurposed into children's clothes for families who need them, at no charge
- The collective buys fabric in bulk with two other informal sewing groups nearby, splitting the savings

None of this is framed by Nomsa as sacrifice. It's simply how she runs things.

What's Still Hard

It would be dishonest to pretend the collective has it easy. Nomsa still does her books by hand most nights. Load shedding occasionally knocks out a full day of production. She hasn't been able to register formally for VAT yet because the paperwork keeps stalling, and access to affordable business loans for informal township enterprises remains a real barrier
She's candid about this because she wants people to understand the difference between struggling and failing. "I still have hard months," she says. "That doesn't mean it's not working."


Fast Facts

**At a Glance**

- **Where:** Khayelitsha, Cape Town
- **Started:** From a single sewing machine at a kitchen table
- **Now employs:** 11 women, part-time and rotating contracts
- **Funded by:** A community stokvel loan — no outside donor funding
- **Ethos:** Pay-as-you-train, bulk-buy cooperatively with neighbouring sewing groups

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Call to Action

If you know a woman in your community who's built something out of nothing this year, we want to hear about her. Drop her name (with her permission) in the comments, or share this post with someone who needs to know that starting small is still starting.

Who's Watching the Children? Inside a Township Safety Network Built by Neighbours, Not NGOs

 

Introduction

Between 2pm, when the primary school lets out, and 6pm, when most parents get home from work, there's a gap. In many South African communities, that gap is where children are most exposed — to unsupervised streets, to unsafe adults, to opportunists who understand exactly when a child is unaccompanied.

In one community outside Durban, a group of local mothers decided they weren't going to leave that gap open. No NGO ran this. No donor funded the first year. It started with six women and a shared WhatsApp group.

The Gap Nobody Was Watching

South Africa's after-school hours are a known point of vulnerability for children, particularly in communities where both parents or guardians work far from home and formal aftercare is either unavailable or unaffordable

Rather than wait for a municipal or provincial programme to close that gap, a resident named Thandeka — a mother of three who works as a domestic worker in a nearby suburb — started asking a simple question around her street: "Who's actually home in the afternoons?"

The answer became the foundation of the network:

• Five other women who work shifts, night jobs, or are currently between jobs and are reliably home in the afternoons
• A rotating schedule so at least one adult is visibly present on the main walking routes children use from school
• A shared contact list, so parents know exactly who to call if their child hasn't arrived home on time
• A simple rule: any adult in the network checks in on any child in the network, no exceptions, no favourites

Built By the Community, For the Community

It would be easy to tell this story as one where an outside organisation swoops in to "save" these children. That's not what happened, and it's not how the women involved would want it told. Thandeka and the five other women running the network are the ones who identified the problem, designed the solution, and carry it out every single day, unpaid, on top of their existing jobs and households.

Local organisations and donors have since taken notice, but their role has stayed intentionally small — providing raincoats and reflective vests for the volunteers during the network's first winter, and helping print laminated contact cards for parents. The women running the network were clear about what kind of help they wanted: practical, useful, and out of the way.

Why This Matters Beyond One Street

This kind of network responds directly to a documented risk factor: children who are consistently unsupervised for stretches of time are more vulnerable to exploitation, including trafficking and abuse  A visible, trusted adult presence during that window is one of the most effective, low-cost interventions communities can put in place themselves, without waiting on formal funding cycles.

What makes this replicable is exactly what makes it modest:

• It costs almost nothing to start — a phone, a shared contact list, and a handful of committed neighbours
• It relies on relationships that already exist in the community, not new infrastructure
• It scales street by street, not through a single large rollout

What Still Needs to Change

The women are honest that a volunteer network is not a substitute for properly funded aftercare programmes, safe public transport, or adequately resourced local policing. They'd like to see the network eventually supported with a small stipend for the most consistent volunteers, and formal safety training from a child protection organisation

Until then, they keep showing up every afternoon at 2pm.

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Fast Facts

At a Glance

• Where: A residential community outside Durban
• Started by: Six neighbourhood mothers, no formal organisation
• Coverage: Main school walking routes, 2pm–6pm daily
• Funded by: Volunteer time; minor donated supplies (raincoats, vests, printed cards)
• Core rule: Any network adult checks in on any network child, no exceptions

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Call to Action

Does your street or community have an informal safety network like this one — official or not? Tell us how it works in the comments, and if you don't have one yet, this might be the week to start the conversation with your neighbours.

Joshua's story continues

 

 

 

 If you watched the first video of Joshua, a ten-year-old, non-verbal autistic child who also suffers from severe epilepsy then you will enjoy the follow-up video.   We are trying to find guidance, help and support for this remarkable child and your contribution is a blessing.   

Thank you for being part of our journey.

 

Enjoy the video.

He Can't Ask for Help. So His Parents Are Asking For Him

 

Joshua is 10 years old. He has never said his mother's name out loud.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't have something to say.

This is Joshua Trichardt. He has severe autism, he's non-verbal, and he lives with epilepsy. He can't tell his parents when something hurts, or when something scares him. He relies completely on routine, structure, and the people who understand him — to feel safe.

 

Every smile. Every small achievement. Every moment of connection — his parents, Louis and Joulene, hold onto every single one of them.

Right now, Joshua is at a special needs school where he is safe, cared for, and understood. But from next year, his parents will no longer be able to afford his school fees.

They've applied for a place at Con Amore, a public special needs school — but the waiting list is long, and no one can tell them how long they'll have to wait.

 Their greatest fear is simple: that Joshua will have to leave his school before another place opens up. And if that happens, one of them will have no choice but to stop working — because Joshua cannot be left unsupervised, not even for a moment.

It's not just school fees. Every month, this family is covering epilepsy medication, neurologist appointments, therapy, doctor's visits, nappies, and the daily essentials that come with caring for a child with complex needs.

 As parents, they say this is their worst nightmare. Not because they're asking for something extra — but because they're fighting to hold onto the one thing that is already working for their son.

To keep Joshua in his current school while they wait for a place at Con Amore, this family needs approximately R9,200 (USD 570) a month.

 That's it. That's the ask. Not a luxury — just the chance to keep their son in the one place he already knows he's safe.

If you can give, any amount helps — every donation goes directly toward keeping Joshua in school, and covering his medication, therapy, and care while his family waits for a place at Con Amore.

And if you can't give right now, you can still help — by sharing this video. Every share is another chance for Joshua's story to reach someone who can.

Joshua deserves the same chance to learn, grow, and feel safe as every other child.

Thank you for taking the time to hear his story.

The CLR Foundation is committed to helping Joshua stay safe and loved.

 

Watch the video on YouTube- here is the link  

Visit our website CLR FOUNDATION for updates