ABOUT THE BOOK:
KasiNomics Unleashed tells the story of the corporate pioneers, the executives who thrive by doing business in these informal spaces, from listed property companies to township butchery chains, from grocery delivery founders to furniture suppliers, financial services entrepreneurs to township property developers. As you delve into the tales of these enterprising executives, you will discover insights and lessons that transcend the boundaries of conventional business wisdom.
In KasiNomics Unleashed also meet the inspiring entrepreneurs “kasipreneurs” of the informal economy, from bake for profit bakers to backroom rental barons, coffee innovators to goat breeders, kasi delivery to spaza innovators, mattress makers and backroom builders, vetkoek fryers and chicken dust queens, kota franchises and backyard auto mechanics.
This is on one hand a book about the business opportunities, pitfalls and key success factors for business that these rural and township and informal economies but mostly it’s a deeply human story of the inspiring tenacious entrepreneurs of our informal economy who are otherwise invisible.
The informal economy is being unleashed – driven by digital transformation, the decline of cash, hybrid forms of formalisation, and the growing presence of formal businesses in township and rural areas. Its growth, unique character, and sheer scale signal something powerful. With its flexibility, determination, and resourcefulness, the informal economy offers a glimpse into the future of entrepreneurship. The informal economy has evolved and grown … KasiNomics Unleashed!
EXTRACT:
The Journey from Kraal to Kasi
Choosing to see the good in things (while not being naïve) is a superpower.
– Chasing Adaptation
I grew up in a hut on the banks of the Tugela River among the mighty Mchunu and Mtembu tribes, we were poor … well, relatively poor, dirt poor by white people’s standards at the time, but only a little poor by the standards of the black people around us. We had no bathroom or kitchen. We washed in the Tugela like other locals, we carried our drinking water in drums from the river to our ‘kitchen’ – which was a gas cooker under an acacia tree and a tin trunk with our meagre groceries. My parents were passionate community workers and anti-apartheid activists, driven not by religion to convert the masses, but by a deep conviction of the rights of marginalised people and a belief that these so-called powerless people were not powerless. These Zulu tribesmen and women, although not formally educated, had immense wisdom, courage, dignity, humour and resilience. Despite the terrible injustices forced upon them by the apartheid government and their homeland stooges, despite the harsh conditions of being migrant workers in the mines and cities far away from home, they continued to be proud, loved, lived and celebrated.
My parents found a place called Msinga that suited my dad fine. The arsehole of the world, a friend called it. My father was a man who traded in hope, and where there was none, he nurtured and fanned hope’s flames, igniting dreams in the human debris of apartheid. He wanted to be where wretched people could be raised up, although he often felt a boot-up worked better than a hand-up!
Dad, Numzaan, was tall and strong; a lean, hard body and a quiet voice which somehow attracted and commanded. Men followed him, these Zulu men, not accustomed to following anyone and listening to no one, found themselves drawn to this man who spoke Zulu as well as they did. In a land devoid of hope and filled with suffering, pain was the sacred chalice he shared; and hope the balm to dull their pain.
And here they were – gathered at the clan’s meeting tree, speaking of their troubles. The men drew small circles and lines in the dust. Would Numzaan hear their cries? We cry, they say in Zulu, but it means we have a plea, a desperate need.
Their cries were many and from all corners of the tribal domains. Some asked how they could bring water from a distant hilltop spring to irrigate their fields; others needed a dam to water their drought-stricken cattle, or maybe a brother had been tortured by the police and lay suffering in Tugela Ferry jail; grannies shuffled in, their pensions stolen by a crooked clerk in Ezhakeni. They were the powerless, the voiceless, and they flocked to our dusty, stony, yard every day. Some stories were so horrific we children were chased away, some so sad that the storytellers sobbed into their colourful tribal robes as they retold them. Others were hopeful, hesitant. Was it possible? Could it be?
Expecting to be turned away but instead finding hope – hope from this white man, their backs straight and proud as they returned home, excited chattering echoing around them, with a spring in their step to report to their distant tribal tree.
Dams were dug, canals stretched across the hills giving life to small vegetable patches. My mother sat respectfully behind the men, taking statements of police abuse, torture, bribery and corruption, and the story hammered out on her typewriter afterwards, the words crashing onto the pages as if shot by a Maxim machine gun.
Dad did not change things in a grand way; he changed them in a thousand little ways. Slowly, this forgotten valley flashed its way on to the pages of the Sunday papers as High Court cases forced the police to release their victims and pay for their suffering. Kids with distended stomachs and suffering from malnutrition, kwashiorkor, lost their listless stares and ran around, their tummies full of healthy food. Pensioners were paid their grants by the grudging, predatory clerks and the fields filled with planted crops.
However my father made enemies among the rich and powerful. Who was this white man to come here and make these powerless people believe they had rights?
My mother and father traded in hope and human potential and believed in the powerless and uneducated people of Msinga, so they challenged power. I also believe in the currency of hope and the untapped potential of kasi businesspeople – too often dismissed as worthless to the economy. By recognising them and telling their stories, we give them reason to believe in themselves. And when that happens, they can stand tall next to formal businesspeople – as equals!
I like to think of myself as both a businessman and an economic activist. I’ve had plenty of success in the business world, especially in ventures rooted in townships, rural areas, and among the misunderstood and often overlooked people who make up the majority of our country.
It’s not always an easy path – doing business in these spaces while also wanting to uplift and support kasipreneurs with no expectation of personal gain. But it’s the path I’ve chosen and it’s one I believe in deeply.
As you read this book I hope you will have the same conflicts; to see the massive business opportunities that these rural, township and informal economies represent, and at the same time to recognise that entering these spaces should be done in a way which partners with and uplifts the informal businesspeople.
When telling human stories you should see the human faces and connect with the people – they are not statistics, nor are they looking for pity or charity. They remind me of the tribespeople of Msinga where I grew up: proud, resilient, resourceful, dignified, and entrepreneurial despite the odds.
On the one hand this is a book about the business opportunities, pitfalls and key success factors for businesspeople. On the other, it’s a story of small people doing big things. I hope it inspires thought and action on how we can better support the people and businesses driving this movement – whether it is government, municipalities, financial institutions, incubators or CSI programmes that can unleash the KasiNomic sector further.
This is also a deeply personally story about my journey and the inspiring people I continue to meet who are often invisible, but should be celebrated and admired.
KasiNomics Unleashed is published by Tracey McDonald Publishers. All proceeds from KasiNomics Unleashed will support the work of the Mdukatshani Development Project: www.mdukatshani.co.za
