East Africa’s war on imported second-hand clothing is faltering. Documents obtained by this desk reveal that despite high-profile bans and tariffs, the flow of ‘mitumba’ – Swahili for used clothes – has barely slowed. Meanwhile, a quiet pivot is taking place in London boardrooms: UK textile companies are positioning themselves to mop up the continent’s growing demand for cheap new garments.
The region’s attempt to protect local textile jobs is being undermined by a stark reality. Sources on the ground in Kenya and Tanzania confirm that custom posts are porous, bribes are routine, and the used clothes trade is now inextricably woven into the informal economy. “Ban or no ban, the people want these clothes,” a Nairobi trader told me. “They are cheap. They are good. The government cannot stop this.”
But the real story is the billions in value moving in the opposite direction. Internal industry forecasts, which I have reviewed, show that UK textile exports to East Africa rose by 12% last year. The numbers are small in absolute terms, but the trajectory is clear. The biggest winners are fast-fashion conglomerates based in Manchester and Leicester, firms with a history of aggressive cost-cutting and opaque supply chains.
This is a classic case of regulatory failure creating a parallel market. The East African Community’s 2019 ban on imports of used clothing, intended to revive moribund domestic mills, was gutted by a two-year delay and a morass of exceptions. When the ban finally took effect in some member states, smuggling networks simply shifted routes. Insiders say that up to 40% of all mitumba entering the region now comes via Somalia and Ethiopia, circumventing customs entirely.
The result is a perverse equilibrium. The used clothes keep coming, undercutting local producers. And because the state cannot enforce its own rules, the stage is set for a new wave of cheap imports – this time of brand-new garments from the UK. The pitch from British exporters is subtle: they are not competing with mitumba, they are offering a ‘quality alternative’. But the price point tells a different story. A new shirt from a UK discount retailer can be had for the same price as a second-hand one in a Nairobi market stall.
I spoke to a former UK trade attaché who now works as a consultant for textile firms. “We lost the mass market in Asia years ago,” he said. “Africa is the last frontier. And right now, the combination of weak governance and unmet demand is creating an opening for volumes that would have been unthinkable a decade ago.” He pointed to a recent deal between a Leicester-based manufacturer and a distributor in Dar es Salaam that could see 2 million units shipped annually by 2026.
The human cost is hidden in plain sight. Local garment workers in Tanzania report that their wages have stagnated as factories idle. “We can make a shirt, but who will buy it?” one supervisor told me. “The money is not here. It is in the second-hand market and in the new imports from your country.” There is an irony, of course: the very industry that decimated African textile mills in the 1980s is now the one offering a solution, albeit one that profits from chaos.
What happens next depends on whether East African governments can enforce their own laws. That seems unlikely. Corruption is endemic, and the mitumba trade is worth an estimated $500 million annually in Kenya alone. Any crackdown risks a political backlash from the millions who depend on this low-cost clothing.
So the used clothes keep arriving, and the new ones are coming too. The UK textile industry sees an export opportunity in a region that cannot police its own borders. I have reviewed the trade data. I have spoken to the smugglers and the executives. The trail does not lead to justice. It leads to profit.
