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The first half of the book tells the story of Okonkwo, a great warrior, his family and their life in a nigerian village. It gives the reader a good feeling for the culture, their customs and beliefs. This part was interesting, but Okonkwo is not a sympathetic character and the toxic masculinity and treatment of women and children was often hard to stomach. I had to remind myself a lot, that this is not just from a different culture but also a totally different era (published 1958). The second half is where 'shit hits the fan' in the form of the White Man, or better said, white missionaries of the Christian faith. It's hard and haunting to read how their culture gets belittled and pushed aside step by slow step and how Okonkwo's world gets smaller and smaller. It left me with deeply mixed and troubled feelings. I'm glad that babies weren't killed but saved by the priests, but at the same time I'm outraged at the audacity of humans to go somewhere and tell others that their way of living is wrong and then forcing one's own beliefs onto others. This book left me angry and ashamed, thoughtful and melancholy. I've read a few books lately that were better written and more enthralling, but none of those have made me FEEL as much as this one.