Harare’s War on Vendors Costs More Than the City Can Afford

The raids come like lightning—swift, silent, and ruthless.

One moment, Park Street is a hive of commerce, with vendors selling everything from tomatoes to phone chargers.

The next, it’s pure mayhem. Municipal police, both in uniform and plainclothes, storm through the crowd.

Vendors flee, some screaming, others silently scrambling to salvage what they can.

Goods are trampled, baskets overturned, and in the chaos, a few unlucky traders are arrested. Their stock is loaded into the back of a police truck—never to be seen again.

“They have no mercy at all. Once they take your stock, you’ll never get it back,” says Saul Nhema, who turned to vending vegetables after losing his construction job.

On the day of the interview, the municipal police had already swooped in twice. As Nhema spoke to reporters, they struck a third time.

Mid-sentence, he bolted, scooping up his produce and disappearing into the crowd.

This is no isolated incident. For years, the Harare City Council has carried out aggressive and often destructive crackdowns on street vendors, citing illegal trading spots, litter, and public health violations.

Yet, critics argue the campaigns are less about urban order and more about mismanagement—and misplaced priorities.

In 2024, the council’s income was a meager US$3 million. But it spent over US$24 million on vendor crackdowns eight times its revenue.

The spending only grew in 2025 when the council created a special police unit solely to target informal vendors.

With income projected to fall to just US$2 million this year, the cost of enforcement is now 12 times more than the city earns.

Despite mounting public frustration, the council has pressed on.

When Global Press Journal repeatedly sought comment from the mayor about these raids and budget imbalances, there was no response.

The financial and social toll of the city’s hardline tactics has triggered backlash from civic leaders.

Reuben Akili, director of the Combined Harare Residents Association, says it’s time for a new approach.

“If we examine the funds allocated for enforcement covering salaries, fuel, and operational costs those resources could have been redirected toward rehabilitating markets or building public restrooms,” he argues.

In Zimbabwe, where more than 80% of the population works in the informal sector and street vending contributes around 72% of GDP, the stakes are high.

As retail stores close due to the ongoing currency crisis, vending has become a lifeline for millions.

But instead of support, vendors face relentless harassment. Many operate in unsafe, unregulated spaces and endure routine evictions under the guise of cleanliness and order.

“The crackdown doesn’t solve anything,” says Samuel Wadzai, director of the Vendors Initiative for Social and Economic Transformation.

“Even when the army was deployed under a former local government minister, did that result in lasting change? I think it’s a big no.”

Designated vending zones do exist, but vendors say they’re unfeasible.

They require formal business licenses costing between US$400 and US$800 a year—an impossible sum for many in an economy long in crisis.

And even those who manage to secure a spot often complain of poor foot traffic and low sales.

Meanwhile, the cat-and-mouse game continues. Vendors like Jesman Guvheya, a widowed mother of five, pay bribes of up to US$4 a day to avoid being raided.

But even those payments offer no real protection.

“Sometimes we are left with just the little stock we hid elsewhere,” she says, moments before spotting police and hastily packing up her goods.

She escaped arrest that day but her son, also a vendor, wasn’t as lucky. Guvheya had to chase down the police truck and pay a bribe to secure his release.

The city’s war on vendors has become a high-cost, high-stakes struggle. But for those on the ground, the real price is measured not in budgets but in lives destabilized and livelihoods lost.