Learning sustainability through second-hand clothes
Words by Patricia Korir
Nguo za Mtumba, translated to “secondhand clothing” in Swahili, is a way of life where I come from. Growing up in rural Kenya, my earliest memories of clothing are tied to secondhand clothing. In fact, dare I say, my first real interaction with “fashion” was through secondhand clothes. As a child in a small town, market days were a highlight. On Mondays, traders would come from the big cities and towns with bales of secondhand clothes, spreading them out on mats and tables. My mother would spend hours picking through the piles, searching for pieces she thought would suit my siblings and I. To us, the secondhand clothes she brought home were nothing short of “new”.
I still remember the excitement when she got home. We would gather around as she unpacked her finds, eager to see what she had chosen for each one of us. The first thing we always did was soak and handwash the clothes, letting them dry in the sun before we could wear them.
These clothes brought us so much happiness and contentment. Life was simple, and we didn’t need much to be content. In fact, the only time we ever got store-bought clothes was during the Christmas holidays. “Nguo ya Christmas,” or “Christmas clothes,” were special. For my siblings and I, those were the rare moments when we didn’t wear secondhand clothes. Thinking back, I know so many Kenyans, and Africans, can relate to this.
Image provided by Patricia Korir
Fast forward to my high school years; moving to a bigger town gave me the freedom to make my own fashion choices for the first time. During closing days at boarding school, my friends and I would use the pocket money we had saved throughout the term and hit the streets of the town. We spent hours sifting through bales of secondhand clothes and shoes, hunting for the perfect pieces. The real joy, however, was in the shared laughter, the bargaining with traders, and the little victories of finding a gem in the piles. There was a thrill in finding something unique that fit both our personalities and our budgets.
This culture stayed with me even after high school, following me to my university life in Nairobi. The streets of the city were alive with hawkers selling secondhand clothes in the evenings, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to browse on my way home. The finds were often so good that I began seeing an opportunity. I started making extra pocket money by going to Gikomba, the largest open-air market in Nairobi. I would pick out good pieces, clean and iron them, and then resell them to my peers and an online audience I had built. I curated a wardrobe for the everyday girl like me, fashionable and on a budget. It was empowering to turn something I loved into a small business.
What I didn’t know at the time was the story behind these secondhand clothes, their origin, their journey, and the impact they left behind. I only knew they came from faraway places, perhaps because I once found a five-dollar bill tucked into the pocket of one of my secondhand jackets.
Sometimes, I’d come across clothes from brands I had only ever seen on social media or TV. But back then, I never paused to wonder about their journey, where they came from or what happened to them once they reached my country. I was oblivious to the larger story of textile waste and its environmental and social impact. I was unaware that every year, tons of secondhand clothing are shipped to Africa, including Kenya, and that many of these items ultimately end up in landfills. I had no idea that this massive influx of clothing was creating a severe pollution problem or that communities were bearing the environmental consequences of this unchecked waste. At the time, all I cared about was the excitement of finding stylish and cheap “new” clothes, oblivious to the complex web of global trade and environmental degradation woven into the fabric of my clothing.
The secondhand clothing industry has undeniably played a significant role in clothing millions of people across Africa who rely on these affordable options. For many families, it has been a lifeline, providing not just clothing but also a means of livelihood. Entire communities have thrived on the business of selling, recycling, and upcycling these clothes into useful items like bags, mats, and even new garments. The positives are undeniable, this culture has supported countless families and fostered creativity and resourcefulness among those who engage in it.
However, as much as secondhand clothing is celebrated for promoting sustainable fashion, a vital topic in this era of climate change, too much of a good thing can be harmful. The dark side of fast fashion, and its impact on communities in Africa, needs to be highlighted. The sheer volume of clothing flooding the continent often overwhelms local economies, stifling homegrown textile industries. Worse, a significant portion of these imports are unsellable and end up in landfills, contributing to environmental degradation.
The menace of fast fashion has drastically increased the volume of clothing produced and discarded globally. Every year, fashion brands churn out millions of garments made from low-quality materials. The production of these clothes is resource-intensive, consuming vast amounts of water and energy while generating significant pollution. Unfortunately, the deteriorating quality of these garments means that much of this clothing eventually ends up in Africa, turning it into an unintended dumping ground. The devastating impact of this is the overflowing landfills, soil contamination, water pollution, and toxic air emissions. Witnessing the toll this takes on our environment and communities is nothing short of heartbreaking. How much is too much?
This newfound awareness has completely transformed my relationship with clothing. I am now more intentional about my purchases, prioritizing quality over quantity. I’ve become mindful of the materials used to make clothes and ask myself if a new purchase is truly necessary. My journey into sustainable fashion has been one of continuous learning, and I’ve realized the power of small, conscious choices in shaping a better future. Looking ahead, I am committed to using my knowledge, lifestyle, and voice to inspire others to reflect on their own impact through fashion and understand the footprint they leave behind.
But not all hope is lost. It is time for us to rethink our fashion choices and consider the bigger picture; how our individual decisions impact the planet and communities far and wide. We need to hold ourselves, companies, brands, and governments accountable. It’s time to demand better; better quality, better practices, and better systems that prioritize sustainability. Change begins with you and me.
About the Author: Patricia Korir is a climate advocate with extensive experience in climate change, community development & resilience, and disaster risk management. She is the founder of My Climate Definition, a blog where she authors and curates impactful stories about climate change, its far-reaching effects on communities, and the resilience of communities navigating its challenges. She is dedicated to raising awareness, fostering dialogue, and inspiring action on sustainable solutions that address the intersection of climate change and community well-being.