By George Werner (former Education Minister)
I’ve been listening to Liberian music a lot lately, and one thread keeps pulling me forward: mothers. So many artists sing of success not as a solo climb, but as a way to honor the women who first believed. It brings me back to a saying from Southeast Liberia: When a child’s name is called in the crowd, the parent’s neck grows longer.
I felt the weight of that truth on my graduation day at the University of Pennsylvania. It should have been joy. Instead, it was quiet grief. My mother had passed a few years earlier. As her last-born, I had pictured her searching the crowd for me, standing taller when my name was called.
She wasn’t there. I cried alone. But that day became a vow. If she could not hear my name in that hall, then I would live so that every step afterward would still lift her chin. I would make my work an offering.
That is why Larry G’s “My Time” stopped me cold as I drove up from North Carolina, playing it on repeat. His prayer is circular, almost chant-like: “When is my time coming, Papay? I don’t want to end like a failure. God, please show me your favor.” He calls God a friend indeed and, in his desperation, commands, “Tell me.” This is not timid piety; it is faith demanding an answer.
One-line pierces me most: “I want my oldma to see me on TV.” That longing is not about fame—it is gratitude in raw form, the dream of crowning a parent with pride.
It echoes S.I.O.’s “Blessings,” where he yearns for the simple joy of hearing his mother say, “That’s my pekin.” In both songs, the ambition is communal. Success is not just for the artist; it is for the mothers who sacrificed, the fathers who held steady, the families who prayed, and the communities that hoped.
When Larry G says, “I know congratulations can’t finish,” he names what many of us feel: success surrounds us daily, but when will it reach our door? His cry is not envy; it is the hunger of one who has clapped for others and now longs to hear the applause for himself—and, by extension, for those who carried him this far.
This is what makes these young Liberian artists so compelling. Their music is not only about personal ambition; it is about redemption and recognition. It is about ensuring their parents’ necks grow longer in the crowd, that their families stand taller, that their communities finally taste pride and possibility.
In their voices we hear not just hustle, but hope. Not just prayer, but prophecy. They remind us that when one child’s name is called, it is never just their victory—it is everyone’.
