Brutal Truth

The true spirit of a city isn’t housed in its grand monuments or government halls, but rather vibrates in its commerce: The lively shopfronts, the bustle of the streets, and the faces of those who own and run them.

Walking through Manzini, the energetic central hub of the Kingdom of Eswatini, always stirs a complex mix of feelings in me. There’s the immediate, undeniable charge - the kinetic energy, the flow of people, the sound of transactions - the very pulse of a thriving community. Yet, beneath this vibrant activity, a more sombre narrative emerges, prompting a critical question for us as a society: Where are the businesses owned by our own people?

A quick survey of the city’s commercial terrain reveals an unmistakable truth. The majority of establishments - from chic clothing boutiques displaying the newest trends, to hardware stores stocked with tools and building materials, to shops selling the latest electronics, to lively food outlets and the large wholesale warehouses that supply smaller ventures - are primarily operated by foreign nationals, particularly those from Asia.

This begs the question: What is the economic role of indigenous emaSwati?

We are certainly present, but our participation is largely restricted to the periphery. We are the determined vendors selling mobile airtime and data, the careful hands arranging fresh produce like tomatoes and onions on temporary stalls and the expert drivers navigating the busy routes of the public transport system.

These are essential, honourable forms of work - the lifeline of the informal economy. However, they are often precarious and modest in scale. Outside of these familiar roles, our visibility drops sharply and our collective economic impact seems diminished. It’s as though the control centre of our own urban economy is an exclusive venue we haven’t been admitted to.

This reflection is not fuelled by prejudice or xenophobia, but by a deep-seated concern for our community. It feels like walking across your family’s land and seeing someone else’s prosperous garden, where your own should be taking root.

I decided to share this weighty concern, this national anxiety, on social media. The resulting response was more than just varied and insightful; it became a profound, collective sounding board - a candid reflection of our most deeply held fears and disappointments.

The first and most immediate barrier, as echoed by many, is the stark reality of lack of resources. Starting a business is an act of faith, but that faith requires capital to build its temple. For many young, aspiring emaSwati entrepreneurs, the journey ends almost as soon as it begins, at the imposing doors of a bank. The requirements are often a circular trap: You need collateral to get a loan, but you need a successful business to acquire that collateral. For many, whose wealth is tied not in title deeds, but in community and family obligations, the doors remain shut.

As one reader, Banele Khumalo of Ludzeludze, insightfully pointed out, the challenge is often a ‘lack of resources, coupled with lack of business knowledge and discipline’. He observed a painful pattern: “Many local entrepreneurs do not reinvest their profits into growing the business, but instead spend them on flamboyant and extravagant lifestyles.” He gave the example of bottle stores or food outlets, which have a steady stream of customers, yet still manage to fold. “It points to mismanagement,” he noted, “where business funds are diverted elsewhere.”

In Manzini’s retail scene, the success story we often point to is that of Asian traders. They rarely arrive as isolated individuals chasing luck. More often, they come as part of a community bound together by financial solidarity. Within that circle, resources are shared, rotating savings groups are the norm, and newcomers are given interest-free startup capital to help them get on their feet.

At the core of this approach is trust and long-term vision. The business is not just a personal lifeline - it is a vehicle to uplift the entire group. This safety net allows traders to survive quiet seasons and withstand economic shocks that would sink someone operating alone.

However, to reduce their success to money alone misses the bigger picture. It’s also about mindset. As emaSwati, we must ask ourselves: Do we think like marathon runners, prepared for endurance? Or are we running a short sprint for quick returns? Too often, it’s the latter.

Here, entrepreneurship often springs out of desperation. It becomes a survival plan when jobs are scarce. Daily profits are spent on food, clothing, or even symbols of status - proof that one has ‘arrived’. The discipline of reinvesting everything back into the business during the early lean years - living simply so that the venture can grow - feels punishing and almost unnatural to many.

By contrast, the traders who succeed tend to adopt a generational outlook. Their shop is not only for themselves, but also for their children and grandchildren. The whole family plays a part: Children count stock after school, a spouse manages the books, grandparents watch the counter.

The first year’s profits don’t go into a new car, but into buying the neighbouring shop. Year two’s profits go towards property. Growth is steady, patient and deliberate - laying bricks for a legacy that stretches across generations. As one observer, Banele, once remarked, such patience is rare among our people. It isn’t an inborn gift; it is a cultivated discipline, a cultural inheritance we have not built on a large scale.

Still, it would be unfair to heap all the blame on emaSwati entrepreneurs. Many are trying to construct a future in the middle of storms, and instead of offering shelter, government systems sometimes add more rain.

So the real question is: What has our government done to deliberately promote indigenous business ownership? Do accessible incentives, protections, or incubation programmes truly exist to help a Swati shopkeeper grow into a retail giant? Too often, policy conversations are tilted towards attracting foreign investors, while local small-scale entrepreneurs wrestle with a jungle of red tape.

Picture a young woman with a promising idea of starting a clothing shop...Before she sells a single garment, she must face a chain of obstacles: Business licences, health permits, tax registrations, municipal fees, etc. Each requires money, time, and endless patience. While such regulations may have good intentions, they weigh most heavily on the very people least equipped to bear them. For first-time, local entrepreneurs, it feels less like entering a nurturing greenhouse and more like trying to plant seeds in a field overrun by weeds.

Another concerned reader Sipho Dlamini of Nkhaba voiced this frustration powerfully, stating in siSwati that governments in other countries release funds for their people to start businesses. He argued, “Kudzinga kulungiswa nabo bo RDF naletinye tikhwama,” highlighting the need to fix our own institutions like the Regional Development Fund (RDF) and other funding pots and to remove unnecessary complexities - tincabekelwane.

Perhaps the most heartbreaking barrier of all is the one we erect against each other. There is a painful social dynamic at play, a crab-in-a-bucket mentality that pulls down those who try to climb out. SingemaSwati sinemona kakhulu. Asifuni kubona makhelwane atfutfuka - we are too envious, jealous of the successes of our fellow emaSwati.

Phinda Mahlalela of Nkhaba put it bluntly: “We don’t support each other as emaSwati.” He painted a vivid and damning picture: “Put three shops, run by liSwati, Asian and umlungu, respectively, selling the same commodities... Our fellow emaSwati will first go into the mlungu’s shop, then Asian, then maybe later to the liSwati shop last.” Ask yourself, why? Is it an ingrained perception of inferior quality? A subconscious colonial hangover that values the ‘other’ over our own? Or is it, as another reader who requested anonymity suggested, the deep-seated venom of umona - of jealousy?

The last reader I spoke with was unapologetic: “These so-called loan guarantee schemes are nothing more than paper tigers,” he fumed. “In reality, they are useless - mere abstract promises of financial assistance without any real impact. They are like a cloud of dust our government uses to conceal its inaction.This sense of betrayal from both the system and one’s own people is a spirit-killer. Entrepreneurship is hard enough without feeling like your own community is rooting for you to fail, or at the very least, indifferent to your successes..”

Underpinning all of this is a deep-seated psychological paradigm. For generations, we have been socialised to see success as a neatly pressed shirt and tie, a designated desk in an air-conditioned office and a predictable monthly salary. The ‘white-collar job’ has been glorified as the ultimate achievement, the proof that one is educated and civilised.

Entrepreneurship, on the other hand, was often treated as a Plan B, a last resort for those who ‘failed’ to secure a job.

This mindset is a poison to innovation and risk-taking. Why would a young university graduate, burdened with the expectations of their family, risk venturing into the unpredictable world of retail when a stable (if low-paying) job offers security and social validation? We have divorced education from enterprise, teaching our children to be brilliant job-seekers, but not job-creators. We must tell new stories, celebrate new heroes - not just the doctor or the lawyer, but the woman who started with a single sewing machine and now employs 20 people, the man who turned a small farm into a major supplier.

The reality in Manzini is a symptom of a national crisis of agency. However, a diagnosis is useless without a prescription. To see emaSwati flourish, we need a multi-pronged, soul-deep intervention which entail some of the following:

1. Embed business acumen: Financial literacy and business management cannot be elective subjects; they must be core to our education from primary school upwards. We need workshops, mentorships and incubators that teach not just how to write a business plan, but the crucial discipline of reinvestment, bulk purchasing and financial separation (the business account is not your personal wallet).

2. Demand pro-business policy reform: We must collectively advocate for a government that is a partner, not an obstacle. This means streamlining licensing, creating tax holidays for start-ups and establishing genuine, accessible loan guarantee funds that are shielded from political manipulation and bureaucratic inertia.

3. Foster unshakeable community solidarity: This begins with you and me. We must make a conscious, daily choice to ‘Buy Swati’. Before heading to the large foreign-owned store, ask: “Is there a Swati person selling this?” It means being patient if their stock is not as vast and offering constructive feedback instead of silent judgment. We must be our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers, their most loyal customers.

The question of emaSwati’s place in Manzini’s economy is not an academic exercise. It is about the future of our nation. With youth unemployment at frightening levels, entrepreneurship is not a side hobby; it is the most vital engine for job creation, wealth distribution and national self-determination.

Manzini, Mbabane and every other city and town in Eswatini should not only be places, where emaSwati are visible at the economic fringes. They must be spaces where we lead, where we innovate, and where we own. The sight of a successful Swati-owned department store, tech startup, or manufacturing plant should be a normal, expected part of our urban landscape.

The responsibility for this does not lie with some abstract ‘them’. It lies with the government to create the space, with our institutions to provide the tools, and most importantly, with us - every single one of us - to change our minds, our habits, and our hearts. We must choose to support our own, to teach our children differently and to have the courage to build.

The gauntlet has been thrown. The question is no longer ‘Where are emaSwati?’ The question now is, ‘Are we ready to step into the arena?’ Our collective answer will determine the soul of our nation for generations to come. 

Peace! Shalom!

Entering the city of Manzini. The author says; Walking through Manzini, the energetic central hub of the Kingdom of Eswatini, always stirs a complex mix of feelings in him. (Courtesy pic)