HARARE – For the thousands of women who form the backbone of Zimbabwe’s middle-class households, the news this week should have been a cause for celebration. The government officially approved a five per cent increase in the minimum wage for domestic workers, bumping the monthly floor from US$85 to US$90. But in the dimly lit kitchens and cramped “back-room” quarters of Harare and Bulawayo, the reaction is not one of joy, but of weary cynicism.
The decision, announced following a post-Cabinet media briefing, sees the minimum wage for a general domestic worker or gardener rise from US$85 to US$90. On paper, it is a five-dollar increase. In reality, it is a figure that many labour experts and workers themselves argue falls tragically short of the cost of living in a country where the price of a basic food basket continues to fluctuate wildly against the local currency, the ZiG.
“Accordingly, the minimum wage for workers in unclassified operations is henceforth pegged at US$270 payable in local currency. The minimum wage for domestic workers will be US$90,” stated Information Minister Soda Zhemu during the briefing. The new rates, which take effect immediately, were recommended by the Tripartite Wages and Salaries Advisory Council (WASC).
Under the new schedule, the hierarchy of domestic labour is clearly defined. A yard worker or gardener now earns US$90. A cook or housekeeper is entitled to US$99. Those tasked with the delicate care of children, the elderly, or people with disabilities will earn US$108. For those holding a Red Cross certificate and caring for the vulnerable, the wage rises to US$117.
However, the “immediate effect” of these laws often stops at the front gate of private residences. Domestic work in Zimbabwe has historically been a sector of “closed doors,” where the law of the employer frequently supersedes the law of the land.
“Domestic workers are the most lowly paid in Zimbabwe and the industry is very much unregulated as they do not fall under an Employment Council,” a representative from the Zimbabwe Domestic and Allied Workers Union (ZDAWU) noted. For years, the union has fought for domestic workers to be recognised as formal employees with the same protections as those in the mining or manufacturing sectors. While the establishment of the Domestic Employers Association of Zimbabwe (DEAZ) in early 2025 was hailed as a historic victory for collective bargaining, the implementation remains a steep climb.
For many of these workers, the US$90—which translates to a measly US$3 per day—is not just a wage; it is a price tag on their dignity. Behind the high walls and manicured lawns of the country’s suburbs lies a “shameful secret” that no Cabinet briefing will ever address: the systemic sexual exploitation of domestic workers by the very men who sign their payslips.
However, the reality of domestic work in Zimbabwe is far from clinical. It is a sector where the employer’s word is law, and for a growing number of women, that law includes providing sexual services as an unwritten part of the job description. In a country where unemployment is rampant and the local ZiG currency struggles to hold its value, the US$90 minimum wage has become a tool of coercion. Some male bosses, view the $3-a-day pittance as a license to demand sex, effectively forcing these women to double as “in-house sick chicks” who quench their sexual appetite whenever the official wife is away.
This lack of regulation creates a vacuum where predators thrive. Recent incidents across the country paint a harrowing picture of this exploitation. In September 2025, a horrific case emerged from Bulawayo where a domestic worker, Bethia Moyo, was doused with boiling water. While the assault was reportedly carried out by a relative of the employer, the underlying theme of domestic workers being viewed as “lesser” or “disposable” was clear to all who followed the case.
Even more disturbing are the stories that rarely make it to the front pages but are whispered in the queues for transport. There are countless reports of “bosses” demanding sex as a condition for keeping the job, or as “repayment” for small loans or food. In May 2026, a dramatic scene unfolded at the Mashoko School of Nursing, (located in the Bikita District of Masvingo Province), where a domestic worker was accused of “ruining a marriage” after her affair with the male head of the household was exposed. While the public often judges the “maid” in such scenarios, the power dynamic is almost always skewed; for a woman earning US$90, saying “no” to the man who controls her shelter and food is a luxury she cannot afford.
“The wage problem is aggravated by the fact that the legal minimum wage for the domestic sector is updated on average once a year,” says labour analyst Ricardo Vale. But when that wage is as low as US$90, it barely covers the cost of a basic food basket, let alone rent or school fees. This desperation is exactly what predatory employers exploit. They know that for many of these women, being impregnated by the boss or becoming his “side-chick” is sometimes seen as the only way to secure a slightly better life or avoid being fired.
The concept of “fictive kinship”—where a worker is told she is “like family”—is often the first step in this grooming process. By blurring the lines between a professional contract and a personal relationship, employers can bypass labour laws and emotional boundaries. “If you are family, why do you mind working late? If you are family, why can’t you do me this favour?” are common refrains used to guilt-trip workers into sexual compliance.
The new regulations do technically maintain protections: overtime pay, transport allowances, 30 days of leave, and maternity leave. But for a domestic worker who is being coerced into sex, these rights are a fantasy. Who does she report to when the police station is miles away and her employer is a respected member of the community?
The US$90 wage is paid in local currency at the official rate, but the reality on the ground is one of “currency dualism.” The moment that money is in her hand, its value begins to evaporate against the black-market rates she must use to buy essentials. This economic trap ensures that she remains dependent on the “generosity” of her employer—a generosity that often comes with a dark, sexual price.
Comparisons with regional neighbours like South Africa, where domestic workers earn more than double the Zimbabwean rate, have led to a massive exodus of labour. This has created a “mothering away from home” crisis, where Zimbabwean women leave their own children to care for others abroad. But for those who stay, the “Golden Triangle” of Harare’s northern suburbs can be a gilded cage. While some employers pay well and provide for their staff, the majority are left to navigate a minefield of low pay and high risk.
As Zimbabwe navigates its latest economic chapter, the domestic worker remains the ultimate barometer of the country’s moral health. The US$90 wage is a recognition of their service on paper, but in practice, it is a mockery of their humanity. Until the government addresses the “shameful secret” of sexual exploitation and provides a true living wage, the “aunty” in the kitchen will remain a victim of a system that values her labour at US$3 a day and her dignity at even less.
Key Labour Rights for Domestic Workers:
- Overtime: Payable for hours worked beyond the standard 44-hour week.
- Leave: 30 days of paid annual leave.
- Maternity: Paid maternity leave for female employees.
- Transport: Allowance required for workers not residing on the premises.