Takeoff’s Mom Hosts Brunch of Joy and Grief for Mothers Scarred by Gun Violence

This Sunday will be Titania Davenport’s third Mother’s Day without her son, Kirshnik Khari Ball, the Migos visionary more widely known as Takeoff. Ball was shot dead as an innocent bystander, police say, when an argument broke out after a private party at a Houston bowling alley in November 2022. His alleged murderer has been indicted, with a pre-trial hearing scheduled for May 28.

“The first one, I did not want to be bothered,” she says about Mother’s Day 2023, just months after Takeoff’s death. Then, last year, she managed to cook. “I cooked because one of Takeoff’s favorite foods is cornbread dressing,” she says before breaking into tears. “I cooked his favorite food.” We hug as she cries.

Davenport and I are tucked away in a dim corner of a conference room at Atlanta’s regal Waldorf Astoria Hotel, where she’s hosting an elaborate brunch for bereaved mothers who have also lost their children to gun violence. It’s exactly a week before Mother’s Day 2025,  and today, women who lost small children in the 2022 massacre at Uvalde’s Robb Elementary School and others whose adult sons were slain near Atlanta are here,  connecting, smiling, and dancing. “Making them feel good is what I try to do,” Davenport says. “You try to do the best you can with what you have got. This year, I wanted to do it a little bit different.” 

Davenport, who is also affectionately known as Mama Rocket, after Takeoff’s nickname, envisioned the event about a year ago. She’s hosting the brunch through The Rocket Foundation, founded by her younger brother Quavo, Takeoff’s uncle and bandmate in Migos and their own duo, Unc and Phew. The Foundation, formed around ending gun violence in the U.S., has provided grants to community organizations in the field, offered summer programming for high-risk kids, and hosted its inaugural Rocket Summit with the White House Office of Gun Violence Prevention on Takeoff’s birthday last June. 

Greg Jackson, the former deputy director of that office – and a gun violence survivor himself – is now the Foundation’s president, but assures me this initiative was Davenport’s alone. “We’re excited to make this event a reality and recognize it as part of a larger legacy of highlighting the voices and courageous leaders that are helping to address gun violence,” he says.

Addressing the room of roughly 50 women from an elaborate, blush stage, Davenport humbly offered a bit of advice: “Give yourself grace.” Noting that she looked forward to reuniting with Takeoff in heaven – “He’s with the Lord, I know this. He gave his life to Christ at 14; he walked down on his own,” she said proudly, recalling a day at church with him – she admitted she’s still figuring out how to adjust to her life without him. She, like women in the room from organizations like Uvalde’s Lives Robbed, Mothers Against Gang Violence, Sweet Hearts, Inc., Girassol Wellness, and Not Another Child, have channeled their pain into advocacy work, but she urged them to think about themselves, too. “When I went to the White House and I talked to Kamala [Harris]…I always hold on to the advice that they told me,” she says. “If you don’t wanna do, don’t do. We’re moms; we want to be super moms sometimes. But we need to give ourselves grace.” 

Though a representative tells me Davenport and Quavo’s Rocket Foundation endeavors are always an emotional battle for them, they created a space for luxury, tranquility, and even a little turn up. The day begins with a cocktail hour in the hotel garden, a bar of Quavo’s own White x Cognac set up at the foot of a cyan pool. The dress code called for white, cream, and derby chic, so several women don frilly headwear of net, pearls, and bows. A jazz trio tucked behind lush bushes plays renditions of Tyla’s “Water” and Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You” while moms like Zanetia Henry sway along, a big, round button with her late son Dre Henry’s photo on it glistening in the sun. He would have been 29 years old today, she tells me. She’s glad she’s here, she says, “Otherwise I would have been home crying.”

When Quavo arrives in a khaki linen getup with silver and diamonds across his chest and teeth, he warmly hugs many of the older women like they’re his aunts. He makes a beeline to he and Davenport’s mother, Edna Mattox, also known as Mama Huncho, for his nickname. She sits quietly at a table near the bar as people chat, a Chanel purse shaped like a black rocket stationed before her.

After making our way through a marble hallway and up the lobby’s gilded, spiral staircase, the second floor is cushioned with soft, beige carpet and bright paint. A memory wall with portraits of some of the women’s slain children greets us in the conference room. They immediately gravitate to it. Gloria Cazares, whose daughter, Jackie, was killed at Robb Elementary School, becomes rosy and weeps at the sight of her photo. Vivian Pitts – whose pink and teal derby hat I had noticed as she gleefully bobbed around the garden – becomes teary, too, sauntering into another woman’s arms for comfort. Her son, Rodriquez Apollo Rucker, is on the wall, but also around her neck, in a round photo on a glimmering chain. 

“He was a father of two kids. I raised him well, never been in trouble, but he just got caught in something he had nothing to do with,” she tells me. In her deep, dark grief, she says, she had a stroke and lost her ability to walk. “It came from stress – ‘[Did] my son call my name when he was shot?’ You know, just parent stuff. After a while, I was at peace. Now I can talk about it.” 

After a group photo at the wall, where the women shout “We’ll always remember you!” on three, Jackson asks us to take our seats and introduces Quavo. “I just wanna thank all mamas for showing up,” Quavo says earnestly. “I just wanna crank the vibe and have good, positive energy. I know we lost the ones, but we got to celebrate [you] just being the mamas and just having kids, ‘cause you’re still strong. That being said, let me get a ‘Mama!’” he calls out, in his signature adlib. “Mama!” the crowd yells back. Later, Quavo will hand-deliver bouquets of white and light pink roses provided by Fenty Beauty to some moms individually. “They’re from Rihanna!” he says as he passes one off, a smile beaming through his bold grills.

After a brief panel on strength, coping, remembering victims, and being survivors, Mama Huncho closes the formal program. “Our lives really have changed,” she says, hesitantly. “I sometimes think that I know what to say, what to do about my life changing. I can go and I can laugh. Some days I say, ‘I can’t do this. I can’t.’” Her voice breaks. “My daughter, right there, she always tells me, ‘Mama, you always use the word can’t.’ ’Cause I can’t! But I try to be strong for her. I try to be strong for Quavo, ‘cause I’m the matriarch. My mama, she’s with [Takeoff].” 

She is, however, getting strength from this room. “Meeting y’all and talking and laughing with y’all – I need this in my life,” she says, brightening, and earning a big laugh as she does. “Call me! I’m at home all the time. Ask for my number before we leave. I’m up all night, and I love talking. You might have to tell me, ‘Girl, go to bed.’ Just stay with me. I love y’all so much.”