But somehow Okonkwo could never become as enthusiastic over feasts as most
people. He was a good eater and he could drink one or two fairly big gourds of palmwine. But he was always uncomfortable sitting around for days waiting for a feast or
getting over it. He would be very much happier working on his farm.
The festival was now only three days away. Okonkwo's wives had scrubbed the
walls and the huts with red earth until they reflected light. They had then drawn patterns
on them in white, yellow and dark green. They then set about painting themselves with
cam wood and drawing beautiful black patterns on their stomachs and on their backs.
The children were also decorated, especially their hair, which was shaved in beautiful
patterns. The three women talked excitedly about the relations who had been invited,
and the children revelled in the thought of being spoiled by these visitors from the
motherland. Ikemefuna was equally excited. The New Yam Festival seemed to him to
be a much bigger event here than in his own village, a place which was already
becoming remote and vague in his imagination.
And then the storm burst. Okonkwo, who had been walking about aimlessly in
his compound in suppressed anger, suddenly found an outlet.
"Who killed this banana tree?" he asked.
A hush fell on the compound immediately.
"Who killed this tree? Or are you all deaf and dumb?"
As a matter of fact the tree was very much alive. Okonkwo's second wife had
merely cut a few leaves off it to wrap some food, and she said so. Without further
argument Okonkwo gave her a sound beating and left her and her only daughter
weeping. Neither of the other wives dared to interfere beyond an occasional and
tentative, "It is enough, Okonkwo," pleaded from a reasonable distance.
His anger thus satisfied, Okonkwo decided to go out hunting. ?R?B???@?'W7G?wV??FR'?6?WfW"&?6?6?F?v???B6??RF??fR??V?V?gF???rv??'W@??F??Vv??????v?v2w&VB??v??6R&?vW72v2V??fW'6??6???v?VFvVB??P?v2??B?V?FW"???f7B?R?B??B????VB&Bv?F???2wV???B6?v?V??R6??V@??