Footwear fashioned from discarded tyres signals both ingenuity and the limits of circular fashion in Africa
By Charles Omondi
In a cramped workshop in Kibera, Nairobi’s largest informal settlement, strips of rubber peeled from old car tyres lie stacked beside sheets of leather from local tanneries. Sparks fly as blades cut through hardened tread, the smell of burnt rubber mixing with glue. Here George Otieno, founder of Akala 21, and his team fashion sandals that update a century-old Kenyan tradition of tyre footwear. “We wanted to give the akala a facelift for the 21st century,” he says, referring to the ubiquitous tyre sandals worn by generations of workers and herders.
Otieno’s practice sits at the intersection of Africa’s informal recycling economy and the emerging discourse on circular design. According to the UN Environment Programme, waste volumes in Kenyan cities are projected to rise by two thirds in coming decades, straining already fragile disposal systems. Tyres, which are non-biodegradable and difficult to incinerate, pose a particular challenge. By reclaiming them, Otieno reduces landfill pressure while creating a product with cultural resonance.
The process is labour-intensive. Tyres are sourced from garages and dumpsites, stripped of steel wires, then cut into sole shapes. Leather uppers are stitched by hand, often using skills passed down through families. The sandals are durable, water-resistant, and priced between 1,500 and 3,000 Kenyan shillings, targeting middle-class urban buyers and tourists. A video profile embedded in Citizen Digital’s coverage shows Otieno’s team at work, their hands moving quickly over rubber and leather, a scene that conveys both dexterity and improvisation. Such footage, easily clipped for social media, highlights the tactile reality of circular craft.
Yet the economics remain precarious. Kenya’s informal recycling sector employs thousands, often without recognition or regulation. A World Bank study notes that sub-Saharan Africa generates about 62 million tonnes of waste annually, with only 4 per cent recycled formally. Informal reclaimers fill the gap, but they lack financing, quality certification, and access to export markets. “These ventures are ingenious but structurally fragile,” argues Frederik Voigt, a researcher on African circular economies. “Without integration into formal value chains, they risk remaining artisanal exceptions.”
The social dimension is nonetheless significant. Akala 21 employs casual labourers to peel tyres and stitch leather, offering income in a settlement where unemployment is high. Skills transfer is evident, with younger apprentices learning from older craftsmen. The sandals also carry symbolic weight, linking contemporary design to the resilience of past generations who walked long distances in tyre-soled shoes.
Environmental impact is harder to measure. Each pair diverts a fraction of rubber from waste streams, but the scale is limited. Nairobi alone discards thousands of tyres monthly. Small workshops cannot absorb such volumes, and the lifecycle of sandals, though longer than cheap imports, still ends in disposal. Circularity here is partial, not systemic.
Market reception has been mixed. Local buyers appreciate durability, but competition from mass-produced Chinese footwear, often cheaper, is fierce. Export potential exists, particularly in niche ethical fashion markets in Europe, yet meeting quality standards and securing distribution channels requires capital. Otieno’s sandals, while stylish, remain constrained by production capacity and branding reach.
The embedded video underscores this tension. Viewers see artistry and grit, but also the modest scale of operations. A shareable moment shows a craftsman slicing through a tyre with a knife, a striking image of human effort against industrial waste. It resonates online, yet also reveals the limits of manual recycling in the face of mounting urban refuse.
Circular fashion in Africa thus oscillates between promise and constraint. Ventures like Akala 21 demonstrate ingenuity, cultural continuity, and modest environmental gains. They create jobs and inspire narratives of resilience. But scalability is doubtful without systemic support: financing, integration into formal recycling chains, and policy frameworks that recognise informal innovators.
As Kenya’s waste crisis deepens, the question is whether such artisanal practices can evolve into viable pathways for sustainable fashion or remain symbolic gestures. For now, walking on waste is both a statement of creativity and a reminder of the structural limits of circularity in African cities.
