The guest compliments your outfit. Your mother says, 'Thank God, she finally learned how to dress. Before, she was wearing nonsense.' The guest laughs. You die inside. The roast is just beginning. Nigerian mothers have a superpower: public humiliation disguised as honesty. The guest asks how school is going. "She's trying, but her mates are doing better." The guest asks if you can cook. "She can boil water. Sometimes." The guest asks about your job. "She works, but the salary is not enough for the way she spends." Each answer is a dagger wrapped in maternal love. And the performance! She smiles while she wounds you. She laughs while she exposes your failures. The guest thinks she is being funny. You know she is being factual. The roast is not comedy; it is documentation. Your entire life, summarized in punchlines for strangers. The retaliation is impossible. You cannot roast her back. You cannot say "Mummy, your jollof was better in 2015." You cannot mention the wig. You must sit, smile, and accept the spiritual damage. This is the tax of being her child. The guest will leave. The roast will remain. You will remember it at 2 AM for the next fifteen years. But the aftermath! After the guest leaves, she turns to you. "Why didn't you talk more? The guest thought you were rude." Now you are also guilty of silence. There is no winning. There is only surviving the roast and preparing for the next guest. What's the most devastating public roast your mother has served you? And did you recover, or do you still think about it?
