Trump's Threat of the World's Highest Tariff Imperiled an African Nation

New York Times

2 days ago

The sprawling textile factory in the mountainous African nation of Lesotho was a deserted clutter. Colorful fabrics were splayed all over, hundreds of sewing machines sat idle, dozens of gray Reebok jerseys were piled on a table.
Outside, beneath a frostbitten sunrise, women wrapped in blankets jostled for a position at the gates of nearby factories still in business, hoping to get selected for at least a day's work.
About a 15-minute drive away from this cluster of factories, Mathuso Tau rose in her three-room cinder block house, racked with anxiety after losing her textile job last month.
With school fees to pay for her daughter, a college graduation outfit to buy for her son and nothing but a pot of white rice for lunch and dinner, she downed a set of pills prescribed for pains that have gripped her chest since she was laid off.
'It's not the life I'm used to, begging for things,' said Ms. Tau, 51. 'It's painful.'
She blamed her suffering and job loss on one man: America's president.
Weeks after deriding Lesotho, a snowcapped southern African nation of 2.3 million people, as a place that no one had ever heard of, President Trump made the country famous by announcing in April he would slap it with the highest tariff any nation would face: 50 percent.
The announcement sent panic through this impoverished country that exports most of its textiles duty-free to the United States, and where textiles account for nearly 90 percent of industrial jobs.
While the tariff rate ultimately announced Friday night for Lesotho was 15 percent, not 50 percent, a lot of the damage was already done.
Perhaps nowhere else on the planet has the impact of the mere threat of tariffs been more visible than in Maseru, Lesotho's capital and manufacturing hub, where companies like Walmart, JCPenney, Levi's and even the Trump brand get clothes produced to sell in the United States.
The looming 50 percent tariff led many American companies to stop placing orders. That led some factories to shut down part or all of their production, leading to thousands of layoffs that devastated low-wage workers who live hand-to-mouth and have gone weeks or months without a stable income.
Fewer workers means fewer customers for people hawking oranges, candy and cellphone cases on Maseru's hilly streets; fewer people paying for rides in the hatchback taxis that locals call four-plus-one; and fewer people paying rent. Almost everyone is struggling.
In ordinary times, Maseru's residents greet the month's end with an exhale, collecting their salaries and sometimes treating themselves to a little splurge. The Lapeng Bar and Restaurant in downtown Maseru usually draws crowds indulging in Maluti Premium Lager and tripe stew.
But the end of July had been eliciting dread.
Dread that their children might not be allowed to attend school next week, without enough money to pay their fees. And that they'll fall further behind on bills. And that they'll need to rely on family and friends to purchase food so they can eat more than once a day.
'We are just hoping the Messiah can come,' said Solong Senohe, the secretary general of Unite, a Lesotho textile worker's union.
For many people, like Neo Makhera, it was already too late for divine intervention.
On Tuesday afternoon she huddled around a fire at the side of a road, selling loose cigarettes and vegetables. She's been doing this, and offering to wash her neighbors' laundry, since April when she lost her job sewing Reebok T-shirts and shorts.
The 128 rand (about $7) a day she made at the factory was life changing as a single mother. With that money, Ms. Makhera, 30, was able to rent a one-room dwelling with a dirt floor and white kitchen cabinets, buy a month's worth of groceries and pay about $22 a month to send her 2-year-old son to school.
He's back home now because she can no longer afford the fee. And her new enterprises are struggling. Plenty of pedestrians and cars buzzed past her makeshift stall, but no one stopped to buy anything. She's lucky to earn more than $1 each day.
Government officials in Lesotho (pronounced (LEH-soo-too) fear the repercussions if tens of thousands of Basotho — as locals are called — suffer a similar fate. Employing more than 33,000 people at the start of the year, most of them women, the textile industry is the largest private employer in a country where nearly a third of the population is unemployed and about half live in poverty.
There is a sense of betrayal among some in Lesotho who say the very country that helped their textile industry grow into a success was the one that threatened to kill it. More than two decades ago, the U.S. Congress passed a law allowing some products from many African nations to be imported into America without tariffs — legislation that led to Lesotho's textile boom.
Officials in Lesotho have argued the arrangement is a win-win. American consumers get low-priced goods while Lesotho's economy gets a jolt. But Mr. Trump had pointed to America's trade deficit with the country — the U.S. imported more than $235 million worth of goods from Lesotho last year, while Lesotho imported less than $3 million from the U.S. — as a raw deal.
Not all Lesotho's manufacturers are stalled. Just around the corner from one deserted factory, it's a different world.
At Quantum Apparel, the factory floors are buzzing with the hum of sewing machines, the puff of irons and the slashing of fabric. Quantum produces almost all of its clothes for South Africa, which surrounds Lesotho. That has kept it running at full capacity through the tariff announcement.
But that does not mean it is immune to the consequences.
The factory gets more orders than it can handle, so it outsources some production to other factories. But with some of its partners closing, several Quantum workers were busy on a recent morning clearing out what had been a storage area and setting up new work stations with sewing machines. The company was creating a new production line to bring some outsourced jobs back in house.
Word had spread that Quantum would need workers for its new line. So dozens of women gathered around the factory gate one morning, most of them eventually leaving disappointed.
Taking in the scene, Mahlompho Nkemele knew the feeling.
After more than 30 years working at various factories, she was laid off this month from a textile plant. On top of that, her other primary source of income has suffered, she said. She has nine rooms that she rents out, mostly to factory workers. Currently, only three are occupied. And she has had to cut the monthly rent in half, to about $11.
So she's been forced to pivot to her newest enterprise: three buckets with fried chicken feet, potatoes and bread that she sells to factory workers. The money isn't as much or as stable as factory work, Ms. Nkemele, 54, said. But she is satisfied that she has something.
For others, the outlook is more grim.
One recent evening, Mpho, 36, posted up between a snack stand and a government building on a downtown Maseru street with no lights. After losing her job ironing and folding T-shirts at a textile plant in January, she turned to prostitution at the suggestion of a friend.
The earnings are inconsistent — she can make just over $20 for a full night with a client — but have been enough to pay her rent and buy groceries for her three children. Still, Mpho, who asked to be identified only by her first name for her safety, said she'd return to a factory job in a heartbeat.
Although she was laid off before Mr. Trump's tariff announcement, the direction the industry has gone since then gives her little hope, she said.
'It's very stressful,' Mpho said. 'There are a whole lot of us not working, and we are breadwinners looking after a lot of people.'
Zimasa Matiwane contributed reporting from Johannesburg.