The Rags That Feed Us: Why Second-Hand Clothes Are Not the Villains of the Textile Economy

In 2023 alone, Kenya imported over 183,000 tonnes of second-hand clothes, translating to roughly 700 million individual garments, according to data from the Kenya National Bureau of Statistics. That’s nearly 14 pieces of clothing for every single Kenyan, from the newborn in Turkana to the teenager in Kibra. Meanwhile, the entire formal textile industry in Kenya employed just 40,000 workers, a number dwarfed by the 2 million Kenyans—vendors, transporters, tailors, sorters, and cleaners—who depend on the second-hand clothes sector for their daily bread. To put it plainly: for every one formal textile job, mitumba supports 50 others.

These are not hypothetical jobs locked away in a manufacturing park accessible only with a badge and a bribe. These are jobs on the streets, in kiosks, and under umbrellas patched with polythene—real work feeding real mouths. Yet, in policy circles and political speeches, mitumba is routinely described as an economic enemy, a saboteur of national pride, a threadbare villain in our quest for industrial sovereignty. But when 2 million livelihoods hang on a trade, the question should not be whether to ban it—but how to make it even more productive.

Once upon a time in the Republic of Irony, an old shirt was deemed more dangerous to the economy than corrupt officials, cartel-controlled sugar, or overpriced Chinese loans. Yes, dear reader, the mighty mitumba—those humble second-hand clothes—were blamed for the death of Kenya’s textile industry, unemployment, climate change, and possibly, your grandmother’s arthritis. The prosecution came armed with patriotic slogans, imported policy briefs, and nostalgia for a time when Kenyan cotton was king and polyester was a myth.

Read Also: Why Kenyan Mitumba Sector Should Be Supported To Grow Further

But here lies the wrinkle in the fabric of this argument: data.

According to a 2021 report by the Institute of Economic Affairs (IEA), the second-hand clothing sector in Kenya is directly responsible for over 2 million jobs, including market vendors, tailors, transporters, washers, sorters, and even the humble hangers-on. These jobs are not theoretical “green collar” fantasies created in an air-conditioned boardroom. They are gritty, real, and grease-stained livelihoods that put ugali on the table. In contrast, the entire formal textile and apparel industry—supported by government subsidies, AGOA, EPZs, and more prayers than a Sunday church service—employs around 40,000 workers.

Let that sink in. Mitumba, the so-called economic villain, provides 50 times more employment than the formal textile sector. And yet, every few months, some suited official stands before the press and declares war on second-hand clothes, as though they are the final boss in Kenya’s fight against poverty.

But surely, you say, locally manufactured clothes must be better for the economy? Yes and no—and here comes the satire, wrapped in economic logic. If supporting local industries meant buying a 3,000-shilling shirt from a boutique named “Made in Kenya” that collapses in the wash after two rinses, then the poor man’s wardrobe would consist entirely of dreams and broken zippers.

Here’s the truth: second-hand clothes do not kill the local textile industry. They fill a gap that local production cannot—yet—meet. In 2023, Kenya imported over 183,000 tonnes of mitumba, according to the Kenya National Bureau of Statistics. That’s roughly 700 million pieces of clothing, serving a population where over 60% live on less than KSh 300 a day. If we banned mitumba today, the only thing that would skyrocket faster than textile factory profits would be nudity.

The cost of a new locally made shirt ranges between KSh 800 and KSh 2,000, while mitumba shirts can go for as little as KSh 20. And let’s not even talk about jeans—the mitumba market sells Levi’s and Diesel for the price of two mandazis. This isn’t just consumer choice—it’s consumer survival.

Supporters of a ban on second-hand clothes often reference how countries like Rwanda tried to phase out mitumba to promote local industry. Indeed, Rwanda increased import tariffs in 2016. And what happened? Imports dropped, yes. But the prices of clothes shot up. And guess who got squeezed? Not the middle class in their Primark polos, but the poor urban dweller who now had to choose between clothing and food. Meanwhile, Rwanda’s nascent textile sector still struggles to scale—plagued by high input costs, expensive electricity, and the small problem of not actually producing enough cotton.

The irony is even richer in Kenya, where EPZ factories churn out garments for export under AGOA, yet 90% of those clothes never touch a Kenyan back. Why? Because they’re made under conditions that assume Kenyan consumers don’t exist. High-volume, low-margin sweatshops that aren’t allowed to sell locally unless granted special permissions. Meanwhile, Kenyans queue at Gikomba and Toi, looking for dignity in the form of a clean, gently-used pair of trousers.