It doesn’t stop. Boys block my way wherever I go. They push up against me, and the things they say burn me like acid.

Hands reach out and grab me, and the mockery gets louder. Even when it’s quiet in class, I still hear the taunts and crude suggestions in my head.

One photo, one mistake. Just one.

“It’s harassment.” Shiluva takes hold of my shoulders, trying to force me to look her in the eye, but I can’t meet anyone’s gaze anymore, not even hers. “You need to report it. Tell Mrs Mzimbe. I’ll come with you and back you up.”

“I can’t.” I’m in despair. “It will just draw more attention if I make trouble. Better to let it all die down.”

But they won’t let it die down. Dambisa, Unandi, and the others are determined to keep this thing going, day after day.

I don’t do Facebook, but Shiluva says the photo has been shared there too. On Twitter it’s gone viral. I close my account, but that doesn’t stop me imagining the things people are tweeting.

“Dambisa started it on Twitter, so you should have reported him to Twitter,” Shiluva says. “Closing your account is letting him win.”

“What does it matter?” I shrug. “By the time I knew about it, everyone had seen the photo.”

“Doing nothing just makes people – boys, men – think they can get away with that sort of thing.”

“He has got away with it.”

“What’s happened to your fight, girl?”

“I think all the grabbing hands crushed it.” For once, in my desperation, I lift my eyes to her face. “God, Shiluva! All I can think about is – what if Ma hears about this? When she hears? Because for sure, someone will tell her.”

“Maybe best if she hears it from you first?” Shiluva suggests.

“But how do I tell her? She’ll be so shocked, so disappointed. She – they – the whole family, they’re so like, invested in me, Shiluva. I’m their hope for something better for the family.”

And I’ve always been proud of that. It’s been my motivation when the work has been hard.

But now! I feel so beaten down.

“I know! But you have to find the words. Don’t let her find out from someone else,” Shiluva urges me.

I know she’s right, and I take some small comfort from her arm slung across my shoulders as we head for maths class.

Ms Zwane is the youngest teacher on the staff. She’s standing outside the classroom when we get there.

“Lamulile Mathebula?” I hear her saying my name, so I have to look up, out of respect. “Is everything all right, Lamulile?”

I hear the pity in her voice, and I want to be buried six feet deep in the earth. All the teachers know about the photo. The pigs like Mr Lekhuleni, and the cool ones like Ms Zwane.

I wish I was dead.

 ***

Tell us: Do you believe Lamulile is suicidal, or will she find a way to get through this?