He kept noticing her throughout the day, while they were playing on the beach, dipping in and out of the icy water escaping the heat, she sat there, in one place, staring out over the water. Later when it was time to go home, his friends packing up, he felt uneasy leaving her; something was amiss. “I’ll catch up.” He shouted over his shoulder and walked over to her. She looked so sad, her legs clutched to her chest, her chin resting on her knees, she’d been crying. “Are you okay?” She lifted her gaze from the water but didn’t answer. “Can I sit?” He asked again, she gave what looked like a nod and spoke, “I’m imagining what it would feel like to walk in there and keep walking.” His alarm must’ve shown, she waved him off, “I don’t have self harm tendencies.” “Then why the thoughts?” He asked. “You want the PG version or the truth?” “Both.” He said. “I’m writing a suicidal character…” She paused, “… or my husband did just that.” She gestured to the water, “Right there, a year ago today.” She lowered her chin, her eyes pooling. “Fuck” He whispered. “Fuck indeed.” She almost smiled.
If Your Faith Needs a Tin of Paint
What Cape Town’s vandalised rainbow crossing says about religious entitlement. Someone took a tin of paint to a public road and called it an act of faith. Here is what it actually cost, and who ends up paying for it.
Willem Jacobs
September 12, 2026
