Quincy native and tech titan Freddie Figgers mourns, remembers mother's giving heart

Several times a week, Freddie Figgers would sit in his home office where three televisions are stationed: One for meetings, another for watching TV and the third solely so he and his mother, Betty Mae Reed Figgers, could talk.

He loved those meandering chats, mostly just so he could check in on the woman who gave him a chance at life when the now 34-year-old was found abandoned in a Quincy dumpster. She and his adopted father, Nathan Figgers Sr., saved him and changed his name from "John Doe" to Freddie Figgers.

Those talks came to an end on Nov. 10, when Betty Figgers died after a stroke, just 15 days shy of her 86th birthday.

Her son, despite amassing millions as a successful tech entrepreneur and operating the country's only Black-owned telecommunications company, now has moments when he again feels like a motherless child.

The feeling has distracted him. In his Coral Springs home, he was searching for his keys for about 30 minutes not knowing they were in his pocket all along. He then realized he was missing the woman everyone called "momma."

"So I turned the television off because the only thing I saw was an empty chair and an empty bed," Figgers said.

It was too much, too soon. But, he said, grief is a process.

From stained hands to helping hands

Freddie Figgers said he wouldn't be the man he is today if not for his adoptive parents, particularly his mother.

Growing up in Colquitt, Georgia, she was the child of sharecroppers. By third grade, Betty Figgers stopped going to school to help her dad in the tobacco fields, laboring for miles in the scorching sun. Over time, her hands grew calloused and rough to the touch, stained by tobacco tar.

Yet, Freddie Figgers loved her hands, knowing they tell her story.

He's warmed by memories of her making all of his clothes until he was 17 years old and had enough money to buy his first outfit: a FUBU (For Us, By Us) shirt and pants set from Cititrends.

Those hands were always working. Betty used her skills with thread and needles to make clothes, quilts and more for her family and others. She started a small sewing business called "Sewing on Demand" in rural Quincy and spent several years working at the National Linen Corp. in Tallahassee.

Yet, for most of her life, she was a wife for 57 years and mother to seven children, along with more than 200 children she welcomed into her home as a foster parent.

"She didn't care what color those kids were ... She did it for about 20 years," said Maryanne Safford, one of Betty's surviving sisters. "She loved the kids ... She was a good person with a big ol' heart full of love."

That was his momma, Freddie Figgers said, always looking out for others and passing on her wisdom. That knowledge created a foundation for Figgers, who showed an impressive understanding of computer systems at age 13.

So much so that his parents purchased a shed, where he repaired thousands of computers, made his own internet service provider with cloud storage and built his first 500 phones there. His mother saw his early spark and potential, even though she didn't quite correctly pronounce "computers."

That didn't matter. Figgers knew she supported him, then and always. By 21, Figgers was the youngest person to acquire a license from the Federal Communications Commission, NBC News has reported.

Humble beginnings, hopeful future

That support never waned as he grew a tech empire that's made national headlines and garnered political connections, including a recent appointment by Gov. Ron DeSantis to serve on the Florida Commission on Ethics.

Figgers Communication is the country's only Black-owned telecommunications company that manufactures products, including mobile phones, tablets and televisions. It's also one of two dozen carriers to participate in the federal affordable connectivity program first launched during the Obama Administration.

With about 90 employees in the company's telecommunications operations, Figgers Communications is building its infrastructure in the Caribbean and has plans to push for more.

"We are on the cusp of launching an avant-garde text messaging feature, a testament to our dedication to pioneering in the telecommunications sector," Figgers said. "This feature, unique in its design, empowers users with the unprecedented ability to retract a sent text message within a two-minute window. This functionality is not only a step towards greater control over digital communication but also addresses common concerns about message permanence in the digital age."

The married father of three wants to see his company grow and reach the masses, just as his mother reached hundreds of children in need of a family.

Now Figgers and his siblings — Nathan Figgers Jr., Eric Figgers, Cornelius Figgers Sr., and Lakesha Figgers (his mother was preceded in death by two children, Michael Figgers Sr. and Olivia Figgers) — are left with the memories of a woman who shared her heart with others and always was willing to lend a hand.

Those hands.

Before her passing, Freddie Figgers said he raced to Tallahassee in the middle of the night from Coral Springs to be by her side. He had an eerie feeling that it wouldn't be long.

At Tallahassee Memorial HealthCare, Figgers said his mother stared at him for two hours. He held her hand. The grip wasn't as strong but the love couldn't be denied. He'll cherish that moment, as he will cherish her – always.

"She was the best thing since sliced bread to me," Figgers said.

Contact Economic Development Reporter TaMaryn Waters at tlwaters@tallahassee.com and follow @TaMarynWaters on X.

This article originally appeared on Tallahassee Democrat: Mother of Black entrepreneur Freddie Figgers left lasting legacy