Suicide prevention: Rethinking silence

Jabulani was a genius. In fact, he was so sharp that people at school called him “Super Kop". He vowed to learn a new word every day, resulting in an impressive vocabulary.

He was the first person I ever saw with a laptop. And not the slim, stylish kind we balance on our laps today. No, this was one of those brick-sized dinosaurs that looked like it could double as gym equipment. Still, he carried that giant thing around as a prized possession. That was Jabulani, curious and always a few steps ahead of the rest of us.

He also had this streak of playful rebellion. Jabulani was a professional latecomer. The man had detention booked more faithfully than most people booked haircuts. School gates locked at 8 AM sharp? Jabulani would waltz in at 8:10 AM, grinning like he had just pulled off the heist of the century.

One morning, he swaggered in after the gates were shut, and we all stared at him, mouths open. “How did you get in?” I asked. With that mischievous sparkle in his eye, he reached into his bag and pulled out something wrapped in thick brown tape with wires and batteries. It was a contraption that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. “I built a remote to open the gate,” he declared, barely able to hold in his laughter.

But here’s the thing about life, the loudest laughter can sometimes hide the deepest pain.

By Grade 10, our paths had started to drift. I had my group, he had his. But whenever we crossed paths, he was still Jabulani, still cracking jokes and making everyone feel lighter. 

Until one morning, he wasn’t.

We arrived at school to find his seat empty. At first, I thought, “Late again.” But this time, he was late in another way. A classmate, who was also his neighbour, arrived teary-eyed and broke the news: Jabulani had taken his own life the day before.

The world tilted. I was crushed. Shocked. Confused. How could the boy with the mischievous laugh, the genius ideas, the unstoppable joy, be gone? What went wrong? Why didn’t I notice? Could I have helped? The questions swirled, but the silence was deafening.

What Jabulani’s story taught me 

Jabulani’s story taught me something I wish I had learned sooner: mental illness doesn’t always show itself through obvious sadness. Sometimes it looks like the class clown. Sometimes it looks like the genius. Sometimes it looks like Super Kop, laughing, joking and carrying invisible weights no one else could see.

And here’s the thing, especially for men: silence is often what gets passed down. “Men don’t cry. Men don’t talk. Men just deal with it.” That’s what many of our fathers handed to us, and some of us are still clutching that inheritance with wounded hands. But silence is a dangerous legacy to pass on.

As men, we get to change the script. What if, instead of bottling everything up, we showed our children that emotions are not the enemy? That crying doesn’t cancel your strength and asking for help is not weakness, but wisdom.

This is heritage too, not the kind we celebrate on public holidays, but the kind we live every day. Imagine passing down a heritage where your child knows it’s okay to say, “I’m not okay.”

Knowing the signs

It’s not always easy to tell when someone is struggling, but here are a few signs we can watch out for in ourselves and others:

• Withdrawing from family and friends.
• Sudden changes in mood or behaviour.
• Talking about being a burden or wanting to disappear.
• Losing interest in things once loved.

If you see these signs, don’t brush them off. Reach out. Listen. Sometimes one conversation can make all the difference.

As we mark World Suicide Prevention Day this September, I remember Jabulani’s laugh. But I also remember the silence he carried. And I’m reminded of what’s at stake when we let silence win.

Your story matters. Your presence matters. Your life matters.

If it ever feels too heavy, you don’t have to carry it alone. If you need help, contact:

• SADAG: 0800 456 789 (available 24/7)
• SA Federation for Mental Health: 011 781 1852 (office hours)

Talk. Share. Be open. Not just for you, but for the generations watching. Let’s pass down courage, openness, and hope.