Masvingo traders demand dignity, not promises”

SAMUEL NJNJA
In the vibrant sprawl of Masvingo’s Chitima Marketplace, where livelihoods hang in the balance and survival is a daily hustle, the Garikai Hlalani Kuhle section is more than just a trading hub—it is a portrait of entrepreneurial defiance against bureaucratic neglect.

Beneath the bustling surface lies a persistent cry for dignity from traders who feel abandoned by those meant to serve them.

Every day, between 4,000 and 4,500 people from across Masvingo’s seven districts converge on the Garikai Hlalani Kuhle section of Chitima Marketplace. They arrive with hope, weaving between makeshift stalls and balancing the weight of commerce—and desperation—on their shoulders.

But behind the vibrant commerce is a simmering crisis: unsanitary conditions, crumbling infrastructure, and a municipal authority that traders say has forgotten them.

Martin Chaka, chairperson of the Garikai Hlalani Kuhle Fruit and Vegetables Association, represents nearly 1,000 traders eking out a living in this neglected corner of the market. Shockingly, only 200 of them are officially registered with the City of Masvingo.

“We’ve knocked on their doors, we’ve written letters, we’ve pleaded,” Chaka told Business Times, the fatigue in his voice betraying years of frustration. “We pay US$22 a month to the council—but what are we paying for? One toilet for thousands of people? When it rains, our produce rots. When customers want to sit and eat, there’s no proper place. We’re being let down.”

The association includes vendors of fruits, vegetables, small grains, and essentials that sustain households across the province. Yet their working conditions are grim. Stalls lack shelter, walkways are choked with dust, and when it rains, the ground becomes a muddy trap.

City officials acknowledge the problem. Masvingo City Council spokesperson Ashleigh Jinjika admitted that infrastructure is critically inadequate but promised relief is on the horizon.

“We value the health and welfare of all our stakeholders,” Jinjika said. “We are working tirelessly to improve ablution facilities and hope to complete upgrades before the end of the year.”

But at present, the only public toilet—poorly located beside the sole canteen—is more a health hazard than a solution. A visit by Business Times revealed overflowing waste, swarms of flies, and a stench that clings to the air and the produce alike. The facility is positioned on the windward side, causing foul odors to spread throughout the market.

A second toilet block, located at the market’s western edge, is privately owned and charges for access—an unaffordable luxury for many.

“You can’t expect a customer to pay just to use the toilet,” Chaka said, shaking his head. “That’s not just bad for business, it’s dehumanising.”

Godfrey Mutimba, spokesperson for the Masvingo Residents and Ratepayers Alliance, was blunt in his assessment. “The city has been making promises for years. But promises don’t build toilets. They don’t shelter produce from the rain. They don’t power this local economy.”

Mutimba urged the city to formalise the informal traders rather than treat them as a nuisance. “Registering traders and investing in infrastructure isn’t a burden—it’s an opportunity to grow revenue and restore dignity to those who keep Masvingo fed.”

Beyond sanitation, traders also lack basic storage facilities, shaded areas, and dry spaces to protect perishable goods. During the rainy season, food spoilage is rampant. In the dry months, dust blankets produce and chokes airways. With each weather shift comes another economic risk.

Yet amid all this, the traders persist.

These are not illegal vendors loitering in alleyways. They are entrepreneurs, mothers, fathers, and breadwinners sustaining the province’s food chain. Their demands are not extravagant: a clean toilet, protection from the sun and rain, and formal recognition from a city that depends on them.

Until Masvingo’s city authorities respond with tangible improvements rather than tired assurances, the Garikai traders will continue to endure—dignified, determined, and dangerously close to despair.

“We’re not asking for miracles,” Chaka said quietly, his hands resting on a crate of mangoes. “Just dignity. Just the basics. Just what we were promised.”