He immediately rose and shook hands with Okoye, who then unrolled the goatskin which he carried under his arm, and sat down. He was reclining on a mud bed in his hut playing on the flute. One day a neighbour called Okoye came in to see him. But Unoka was such a man that he always succeeded in borrowing more, and piling up his debts. People laughed at him because he was a loafer, and they swore never to lend him any more money because he never paid back. He was poor and his wife and children had barely enough to eat. As soon as he found one he would sing with his whole being, welcoming it back from its long, long journey, and asking it if it had brought home any lengths of cloth. He would remember his own childhood, how he had often wandered around looking for a kite sailing leisurely against the blue sky. Unoka loved it all, and he loved the first kites that returned with the dry season, and the children who sang songs of welcome to them. Old men and children would then sit round log fires, warming their bodies. Some years the harmattan was very severe and a dense haze hung on the atmosphere. And it was not too hot either, because the cold and dry harmattan wind was blowing down from the north. Unoka loved the good hire and the good fellowship, and he loved this season of the year, when the rains had stopped and the sun rose every morning with dazzling beauty. They would go to such hosts for as long as three or four markets, making music and feasting. Sometimes another village would ask Unoka's band and their dancing egwugwu to come and stay with them and
Unoka would play with them, his face beaming with blessedness and peace. He was very good on his flute, and his happiest moments were the two or three moons after the harvest when the village musicians brought down their instruments, hung above the fireplace. He wore a haggard and mournful look except when he was drinking or playing on his flute. He was tall but very thin and had a slight stoop. Unoka was, of course, a debtor, and he owed every neighbour some money, from a few cowries to quite substantial amounts. He always said that whenever he saw a dead man's mouth he saw the folly of not eating what one had in one's lifetime. If any money came his way, and it seldom did, he immediately bought gourds of palm-wine, called round his neighbours and made merry. In his day he was lazy and improvident and was quite incapable of thinking about tomorrow. Unoka, for that was his father's name, had died ten years ago. He had no patience with unsuccessful men. He had a slight stammer and whenever he was angry and could not get his words out quickly enough, he would use his fists. When he walked, his heels hardly touched the ground and he seemed to walk on springs, as if he was going to pounce on somebody. He breathed heavily, and it was said that, when he slept, his wives and children in their houses could hear him breathe. He was tall and huge, and his bushy eyebrows and wide nose gave him a very severe look. That was many years ago, twenty years or more, and during this time Okonkwo's fame had grown like a bush-fire in the harmattan. Every nerve and every muscle stood out on their arms, on their backs and their thighs, and one almost heard them stretching to breaking point. Amalinze was a wily craftsman, but Okonkwo was as slippery as a fish in water. The drums beat and the flutes sang and the spectators held their breath. It was this man that Okonkwo threw in a fight which the old men agreed was one of the fiercest since the founder of their town engaged a spirit of the wild for seven days and seven nights. He was called the Cat because his back would never touch the earth. Amalinze was the great wrestler who for seven years was unbeaten, from Umuofia to Mbaino. As a young man of eighteen he had brought honour to his village by throwing Amalinze the Cat.
His fame rested on solid personal achievements. Okonkwo was well known throughout the nine villages and even beyond.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer Things Fall Apart the centre cannot hold Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world. (One of the first African novels written in English to receive global critical acclaim)
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