"As Okonkwo sat in his hut that night, gazing into a log fire, he thought over the matter. A sudden fury rose within him and he felt a strong desire to take up his machete, go to the
church and wipe out the entire vile and miscreant gang. But on further though he told
himself that Nwoye was not worth fighting for. Why, he cried in his heart, should he,
Okonkwo, of all people, be cursed with such a son? He saw clearly in it the finger of his
personal god or chi. For how else could he explain his great misfortune and exile and
now his despicable son's behavior? Now that he had time to think of it, his son's crime
stood out in its stark enormity. To abandon the gods of one's father and go about with a
lot of effeminate men clucking like old hens was the very depth of abomination. Suppose
when he dies all his male children decided to follow Nwoye's steps and abandon their
ancestors? Okonkwo felt a cold shudder run through him at the terrible prospect, like the
prospect of annihilation. He saw himself and his fathers crowding round their ancestral
shrine waiting in vain for worship and sacrifice and finding nothing but ashes of bygone
days, and his children the while praying to the white man's god. If such a thing were ever
to happen, he, Okonkwo, would wipe them off the face of the earth.
Okonkwo was popularly called the 'Roaring Fikme.' As he looked into the log fire he
recalled the name. He was a flaming fire. How then could he have begotten a son like
Nwoye, degenerate and effeminate? Perhaps he was not his son. No! he could not be. His
wife had played him false. He would teach her! But Nwoye resembled his grandfather,
Unoka, who was Okonkwo's father. He pushed the thought out of his mind. He,
Okonkwo, was called a flaming fire. How could he have begotten a woman for a son? At
Nwoye's age Okonkwo had already become famous throughout Umuofia for his
wrestling and his fearlessness.
He sighed heavily, and as if in sympathy the smoldering log also sighed. And
immediately Okonkwo's eyes were opened and he saw the whole matter clearly. Living
fire begets cold, impotent ash. He sighed again, deeply" (152-153).