I recently sat on a low crate beside a street vendor, a woman who sells fruit and vegetables at a familiar intersection in my community.
There was nothing flashy about her setup — a few umbrellas for shade, stacked crates, buckets filled with avocados and spinach, and her quiet, watchful energy.
As we spoke, I learned that her mother had once sold at the same stand. Generations of survival and dignity, built on the hustle of selling produce to passers-by.
What struck me most wasn’t just the continuity of her trade, but the way she and the women around her operate.
They’re not competitors in the traditional sense. They sell similar goods, to similar customers, in the same area — and yet there’s no tension, no toxic rivalry.
Just cooperation.
“We thrive because we save together,” she told me.
She then shared something extraordinary.
Every day, each of them puts aside R100. At the end of the week, there’s a stockvel for R1,000, then at the end of the month they have one for R2,000.
These aren’t just random savings. They’re three different stokvels, running in parallel.
One for short-term needs, one for bulk stock, and one for long-term family goals.
Many of these women have sent their children to university. Some have built homes. They’ve paid off debts and lifted entire households.
Not through tenders or funding rounds or pitch competitions — but through consistent, community-based saving and discipline.
It left me thinking: what would it look like to “formalise” these women? What does that even mean?
Because here’s the thing: we often talk about bringing the informal sector into the mainstream.
Banks, policymakers, development agencies — we all use the language of inclusion, formalisation, upliftment.
But we rarely begin by acknowledging that systems already exist.
What these women have built is not informal in the sense of being disorganised.
It’s informal only because it doesn’t fit neatly into a spreadsheet or a registration number.
Their credibility doesn’t lie in paperwork. It lies in their consistency.
Their version of “compliance” is showing up every day, contributing their share, and holding each other accountable.
Their governance is informal but tight. Their outcomes — children in school, fridges stocked, rent paid — are tangible.
The question is not: How do we fix them? The better question is: How do we build with them?
Banks and formal institutions have an opportunity here. But it starts with a shift in mindset. Too often, institutions approach these traders with requirements that erase their reality.
They ask for audited financials, registered addresses, years of bank statements — all the while overlooking the depth of creditworthiness these women have built with one another, week after week, over decades.
Imagine if banks designed financial products that respected stokvel logic instead of bypassing it.
What if a vendor’s contribution history to a savings club could be used to build a credit score?
What if microloans were issued based on group saving performance, not individual formal income?
There’s a whole layer of untapped financial intelligence operating in our township corners —and yet the dominant narrative still paints these women as “vulnerable” or “unbanked.”
But they are not unbanked by accident. They are unbanked because the current banking system wasn’t designed with their rhythms in mind.
There is no app that replaces the trust built in a stokvel.
No fintech innovation more powerful than a community that holds itself accountable every day.
So where are the opportunities?
First, we need a recognition economy - one that sees that informal doesn’t mean unprofessional.
Local municipalities, development finance institutions, and especially banks should invest in field officers whose job is to learn from these women before prescribing to them.
Understand how their financial ecosystems work, then co-create products that fit.
Second, banks can start offering basic digital savings accounts tied to group stokvels. With the right training, these could form the basis of a vendor’s formal credit profile over time.
Imagine five years of consistent savings data being translated into a credit score, a home loan opportunity, or even business insurance.
Lastly, we need to stop assuming that formalisation means abandoning informal methods. It should mean giving these traders more tools — not taking away the systems they trust.
Formalisation should expand options, not replace community.
To me, the lesson is clear. If we want to build a more inclusive economy, we must stop treatingthe informal sector as broken or underdeveloped.
These women are not waiting to be rescued.
They are already running economies. What they need is recognition, infrastructure that fits their flow, and a seat at the table where financial systems are designed.
Because when the fruit sellers of our townships are seen not just as traders but as economists in their own right, maybe then we’ll stop asking what they lack — and start learning what they already know.
Bohlale is a business consultant and youth empowerment advocate.
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