the trigger and there was a loud report accompanied by the wail of his wives and children. He threw down the gun and jumped into the barn and there lay the woman, very much shaken and frightened but quite unhurt. He heaved a heavy sigh and went away with the gun.
In spite of this incident the New Yam Festival was celebrated with great joy in Okonkwo's household. Early that morning as he offered a sacrifice of new yam and palm oil to his ancestors he asked them to protect him, his children and their mothers in the new year.
As the day wore on his in-laws arrived from three surrounding villages, and each party brought with them a huge pot of palm-wine. And there was eating and drinking till night, when Okonkwo's in-laws began to leave for their homes The second day of the new year was the day of the great wrestling match between Okonkwo's village and their neighbours. It was difficult to say which the people enjoyed more, the feasting and fellowship of the first day or the wrestling Contest of the second. But there was one woman who had no doubt whatever in her mind. She was Okonkwo's second wife Ekwefi, whom he nearly shot. There was no festival in all the seasons of the year which gave her as much pleasure as the wrestling match. Many years ago when she was the village beauty Okonkwo had won her heart by throwing the Cat in the greatest contest within living memory. She did not marry him then because he was too poor to pay her bride-price. But a few years later she ran away from her husband and came to live with Okonkwo. All this happened many years ago. Now Ekwefi was a woman of forty-five who had suffered a great deal in her time. But her love of wrestling contests was still as strong as it was thirty years ago.
It was not yet noon on the second day of the New Yam Festival. Ekwefi and her only daughter, Ezinma, sat near the fireplace waiting for the water in the pot to boil. The fowl Ekwefi had just killed was in the wooden mortar. The water began to boil, and in one deft movement she lifted the pot from the fire and poured the boiling water over the fowl. She put back the empty pot on the circular pad in the corner, and looked at her palms, which were black with soot. Ezinma was always surprised that her mother could lift a pot from the fire with her bare hands.
"Ekwefi," she said, "is it true that when people are grown up, fire does not burn them?" Ezinma, unlike most children, called her mother by her name.
"Yes," replied Ekwefi, too busy to argue. Her daughter was only ten years old but she was wiser than her years.
"But Nwoye's mother dropped her pot of hot soup the other day and it broke on the floor."
Ekwefi turned the hen over in the mortar and began to pluck the feathers.
"Ekwefi," said Ezinma, who had joined in plucking the feathers, "my eyelid is twitching."
"It means you are going to cry," said her mother.
"No," Ezinma said, "it is this eyelid, the top one."
"That means you will see something."
"What will I see?" she asked.
"How can I know?" Ekwefi wanted her to work it out herself.
"Oho," said Ezinma at last. "I know what it is--the wrestling match."
At last the hen was plucked clean. Ekwefi tried to pull out the horny beak but it was too hard. She turned round on her low stool and put the beak in the fire for a few moments. She pulled again and it came off.
"Ekwefi!" a voice called from one of the other huts. It was Nwoye's mother, Okonkwo's first wife.
"Is that me?" Ekwefi called back. That was the way people answered calls from outside. They never answered yes for fear it might be an evil spirit calling.
"Will you give Ezinma some fire to bring to me?" Her own children and Ikemefuna had gone to the stream.
Ekwefi put a few live coals into a piece of broken pot and Ezinma carried it across the clean swept compound to Nwoye's mother.
"Thank you, Nma," she said. She was peeling new yams, and in a basket beside her were green vegetables and beans.
"Let me make the fire for you," Ezinma
In spite of this incident the New Yam Festival was celebrated with great joy in Okonkwo's household. Early that morning as he offered a sacrifice of new yam and palm oil to his ancestors he asked them to protect him, his children and their mothers in the new year.
As the day wore on his in-laws arrived from three surrounding villages, and each party brought with them a huge pot of palm-wine. And there was eating and drinking till night, when Okonkwo's in-laws began to leave for their homes The second day of the new year was the day of the great wrestling match between Okonkwo's village and their neighbours. It was difficult to say which the people enjoyed more, the feasting and fellowship of the first day or the wrestling Contest of the second. But there was one woman who had no doubt whatever in her mind. She was Okonkwo's second wife Ekwefi, whom he nearly shot. There was no festival in all the seasons of the year which gave her as much pleasure as the wrestling match. Many years ago when she was the village beauty Okonkwo had won her heart by throwing the Cat in the greatest contest within living memory. She did not marry him then because he was too poor to pay her bride-price. But a few years later she ran away from her husband and came to live with Okonkwo. All this happened many years ago. Now Ekwefi was a woman of forty-five who had suffered a great deal in her time. But her love of wrestling contests was still as strong as it was thirty years ago.
It was not yet noon on the second day of the New Yam Festival. Ekwefi and her only daughter, Ezinma, sat near the fireplace waiting for the water in the pot to boil. The fowl Ekwefi had just killed was in the wooden mortar. The water began to boil, and in one deft movement she lifted the pot from the fire and poured the boiling water over the fowl. She put back the empty pot on the circular pad in the corner, and looked at her palms, which were black with soot. Ezinma was always surprised that her mother could lift a pot from the fire with her bare hands.
"Ekwefi," she said, "is it true that when people are grown up, fire does not burn them?" Ezinma, unlike most children, called her mother by her name.
"Yes," replied Ekwefi, too busy to argue. Her daughter was only ten years old but she was wiser than her years.
"But Nwoye's mother dropped her pot of hot soup the other day and it broke on the floor."
Ekwefi turned the hen over in the mortar and began to pluck the feathers.
"Ekwefi," said Ezinma, who had joined in plucking the feathers, "my eyelid is twitching."
"It means you are going to cry," said her mother.
"No," Ezinma said, "it is this eyelid, the top one."
"That means you will see something."
"What will I see?" she asked.
"How can I know?" Ekwefi wanted her to work it out herself.
"Oho," said Ezinma at last. "I know what it is--the wrestling match."
At last the hen was plucked clean. Ekwefi tried to pull out the horny beak but it was too hard. She turned round on her low stool and put the beak in the fire for a few moments. She pulled again and it came off.
"Ekwefi!" a voice called from one of the other huts. It was Nwoye's mother, Okonkwo's first wife.
"Is that me?" Ekwefi called back. That was the way people answered calls from outside. They never answered yes for fear it might be an evil spirit calling.
"Will you give Ezinma some fire to bring to me?" Her own children and Ikemefuna had gone to the stream.
Ekwefi put a few live coals into a piece of broken pot and Ezinma carried it across the clean swept compound to Nwoye's mother.
"Thank you, Nma," she said. She was peeling new yams, and in a basket beside her were green vegetables and beans.
"Let me make the fire for you," Ezinma
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