Op-Ed: Who Gets to Thrift When Secondhand Gets Expensive?

Every inch of the sidewalks is occupied by vendors selling secondhand clothes. The air hangs heavy with the scent of mothballs and kebabs grilling on miniature braai (barbecue) stands. There are no fairy lights here. No gingham bunting or fancy decorations. Just steel racks groaning under the weight of rubble sacks with secondhand clothes that have spent a lifetime earning their wrinkles.

These aren't just garments; they're lifelines. Suits, school shoes, work shirts, and winter jackets with torn linings. They've carried generations of Black South Africans through retrenchments, border jumps, funerals, and first interviews. This isn't a market; it's a hospice — a sanctuary where the poor come to patch their lives together with what others have discarded. Noord Street's thrift stalls have long performed a social service, clothing those left behind by every new season, trend, or political promise.

But there has been a shift lately. What used to cost R20 (about $1.10) now costs R80 (about $4.50). Sellers speak of being "cleaned out" on weekends by kids with tote bags and disposable income. "For resell," they say. What was once for survival is now for style.

It's not the first time secondhand clothing has played a transformative role. During the Great Depression, thrift wasn't fashion — it was a symbol of dignity. Churches and charities in the U.S. and Europe handed down used clothes to help struggling families stay afloat. In WWII, rationing made mending patriotic. The slogan "Make do and mend" was a matter of survival.

South Africa was no exception. Most people lived below the poverty line under Apartheid. Hand-me-downs from siblings or clothes brought by domestic workers from their white employers became Sunday bests. Poverty didn't end with Apartheid. With unemployment sitting at 32.9 percent, "make do and mend" remains a shared identity. Secondhand became synonymous with endurance.

In 2014, I moved to Cape Town. As a thrift lover, I looked for a De Villiers Street equivalent. Instead, I found a lifestyle. Even in hospice shops, prices were inflated. In Observatory and Woodstock, I saw racks of overpriced denim jackets arranged by aesthetic, not size. Mannequins in the windows wore knitwear with price tags that made you question if you were thrifting to save or to stand out. Incense sticks burned while over-accessorized, dreadlocked white guys in tie-dye worked the counter, each pretentious detail carefully curated.

You're encouraged to browse, linger, and discover. But you won't find the need. These stores aren't built for the poor. They cater to ring-lit students, the pseudo-bohemians — those who perform struggle but never live it. A rusted Levi's jacket costs the same as an electricity bill. "Vintage" corduroy pants could feed a family for a week. The irony is that these very pieces and the culture surrounding them originated from communities where recycling clothes wasn't a trend but a survival tactic.

Back on De Villiers Street, traders feel the pressure. Their lifeline stalls — once overlooked by the middle class — are now raided by trend-savvy hustlers looking to stock shops in Melville, Parkhurst, or Cape Town, or their online stores. Now, the poor compete with the stylish. A domestic worker searching for Sunday shoes for her child finds them marked up — cleaned, maybe — but suddenly out of reach. Thrifting has been colonized.

If Observatory is the seductive face of gentrification's thrift, then Rosebank Market is its smug little sibling. At the Sunday rooftop market at Rosebank Mall, thrift is overpriced and pretentious. Sellers sip kombucha while boasting about "authentic Levi's from 1983" and throwing shade at H&M. Their stalls look like magazine shoots, complete with mirrors, rugs, and handwritten price tags with eco-slogans. They talk about "curating a vibe" like they've discovered a new world. But what they won't say is this: much of that curated stock is bulk-bought from places like Noord Street or Salvation Army shops — marked up, styled, and sold to people who wouldn't dare set foot downtown.

Thrifting has climbed the food chain, and those it once served are now being priced out. The new thrift economy doesn't redistribute; it extracts. This isn't to say people shouldn't thrift or that style should be policed. The climate crisis is real. The fashion industry is a top polluter. Thrifting, at its best, slows consumption and extends life cycles. The world needs fewer landfills and more shared wardrobes. However, here's the catch: the moral high ground becomes murky when sustainability is only accessible to the well-off. When being "eco-conscious" means spending hundreds on a second-hand trench coat. When saving the planet is a privilege.

The real question isn't "Should we thrift?" It's who gets to? Who gains when thrift gets expensive? Who loses when resale platforms like Yaga, Depop, or curated Instagram pages hoard good-quality stock and drive up prices? What happens to the woman who once relied on second-hand school uniforms but now sees them restyled as retro — and unaffordable?

A hierarchy is forming, and like always, it follows class lines. Noord merchants are adapting to demand, which is fair. But the result is clear: the poor are being priced out of the system they built. What we're witnessing is economic gentrification. And like all gentrification, it starts with erasure. The jacket becomes a statement. The scarf becomes vintage. The wearer disappears. The systems of care — the stalls, the markets, the clothing banks — are drained of meaning. In this new thrift economy, memory is optional.

But we must resist that. We must remember: secondhand culture wasn't born on Instagram. It was about warmth. Getting hired. Dressing kids for church. It was an economy of care — a way to stretch thin lives across long winters. So no, this isn't a hit piece on fashionistas or cool kids in Docs. Thrift if you must. But do it with awareness. Know every item has a history, a geography, and a class.