Mama Know Best: A Reggae Reflection on Motherhood

By a Philosophical Yardie with Nuff Respect

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Womb of Hope

Yuh see, when a likkle pickney come into dis world—fresh, pink, bawlin’ like dem jus’ get evicted from paradise—what really born is more than a baby. Is hope. And not just any ole hope. Is the kinda hope dat sit down deep in a mama’s bones, y’know? The kinda hope dat seh, “Dis child, dis one here, might build a better world, or at least clean dem room.”

Mama don’t need no degree to know potential when she see it. From de very first wail, she already dreaming ’bout di day de child walk strong, talk sense, and maybe tek she out fi dinner one day—without she having to pay.

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Labour of Love… an’ Other Tings

Now listen—childbirth? Lawd. Dat a no gentle Sunday stroll in di market. Is more like a dancehall clash between pain an’ miracle. Mama fighting dragons in de delivery room, bawlin’ prayers and curses, sometimes inna same breath. But once she hear dat first cry—boom!—love flood di place like a riddim drop pon stage.

And motherhood? It nuh end when de cord cut. Oh no. Dat was just the intro, mi fren. Mama tun into cook, counsellor, security guard, and occasionally, private investigator when yuh sneakin’ out at night.

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Years of Big People Business

See now, children grow up fast—like mango tree in rainy season. But mama? She still deh yah. Whether yuh five, fifteen, or fifty—she still callin’, still prayin’, still remindin’ yuh to carry jacket “jus’ in case.” Mama memory long, y’know. She remember every homework yuh forget, every fever yuh catch, and every lie yuh tell—yes man, even di one ’bout why yuh goldfish gone missin’.

But hear mi now: not all mamas bring yuh into de world. Some step in like heroes—aunties, grannies, neighbors—blessing yuh with wisdom and stew chicken. Every one of dem is a true empress of di spirit.

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Blessing Fi All Mama Dem

May di sun rise gentle pon yuh face, Mama,
And may yuh rest come sweet at night.
May di love yuh plant in silent places
Bloom loud and proud in di hearts of yuh children.

May di tears yuh shed water tomorrow’s joy,
And di laughter yuh share echo in generations.

To di mamas who here—nuff respect and nuff blessings.
To di mamas far or gone—may memory sweet like ripe naseberry.

And to all who mother, whether by birth or by spirit—
May peace rock yuh soul like a hammock in breeze.

One love, Mama. One eternal love.

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So today, mi lift mi coconut water (or rum, mi nuh judging) to all mothers. Di real foundation builders. Di heart-keepers. Di original queens.

Without yuh, de world woulda mash up long time.