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.
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