I used to call the mama shop under my childhood flat “downstairs” or “Block 300”. The entrance always smelled faintly of uncle’s kopi, followed by the ding-dong of the bell as I walked in. The metal racks were always packed to the brim and as a child it was a snack haven.
I went there frequently for my favourite Bika chips, which always sat on the top shelf. I would tiptoe and try to reach for it. Every time, without fail, uncle would pull the packet down for me before I even asked. Somehow, he always knew.
Uncle didn’t just recognise faces, he remembered everyone’s routines. When the grandma from the next block stopped coming downstairs, he noticed her absence within days. He would ask the regulars who lived nearby if she was doing alright.
When he found out she wasn’t able to come down because her knees worsened, he would set aside her usual biscuit crackers and nescafe sachets so that her neighbour could pass them up to her.
Even when the domestic helper who came by every afternoon with a small hand in hers arrived later than usual, he’d ask if school had ended late, then check if they were getting the usual drink.
These details mattered because uncle acted on them and showed care in his own ways. Over time, “downstairs” became more than a shop. These kinds of exchanges once defined neighborhood life, something we documented in our “Maju-lah!” series.
Can convenience stores hold the same warmth?
But today, spaces like “Block 300” are disappearing.
Unlike the past where mama shops were a common sight in our neighbourhood void decks, fewer than 250 traditional provision shops remain, according to The Straits Times.
Rising rents and shifts in shopping habits have slowly pushed many to close, being replaced by 24/7 air-conditioned convenience store chains like 7-Eleven and Cheers. These stores are designed for modern life: you grab what you need, tap your card, and go. The exchange is efficient and predictable.
And for some, that’s exactly the point. A Gen Z neighbour once told me she prefers convenience stores precisely because there’s no need to engage in small talk.
“Sometimes I just want to buy my things and leave,” she said. Especially when we’re fatigued from a long day of work or just prefer to keep to ourselves, that anonymity can feel comforting.
Still, something has shifted.
In the past, time moved differently around these shops. You could pause and linger without even realising it. Familiar faces reappeared often enough to become part of your day and routines were noticed simply because they repeated. When someone didn’t show up, it registered.
In contrast, a convenience store runs on a different rhythm. The scanner beeps, the receipt prints and the next person in line steps forward. I’ve watched cashiers navigate this tension, smiling between transactions, recognising regulars when they can, but always aware of the line forming behind.
The delivery rider grabbing his usual can drink. The office worker who always gets a curry puff after work. On quieter days, there’s space for brief exchanges, a quick “How was your day?” or a shared laugh. However, with the nature of rotating shifts, this care comes and goes and these staff can’t follow up as closely as how mama shop owners operate.
Kindness can adapt
What lingers is not a lack of kindness, but a difference in what the space itself makes possible. The moments of connection still appear in brief and sincere ways but they are also dependent on the setup and pace of the environment.
So perhaps the question isn’t whether kindness can survive convenience, but how much kindness our spaces allow. While mama shops offer a social bond alongside convenience, some people may prefer anonymity and efficiency. What matters is that such care can still exist, taking new forms, even within a modern society like ours.
The mama shops are disappearing. But the question they leave behind remains:
What kind of moments are we still willing to make room for?
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