Things fall apart by Chinua Achebe

The night was impenetrably dark.

The moon had been rising later and later every night until now it was seen only at dawn.

And whenever the moon forsook evening and rose at cock-crow the nights were as black as charcoal.

Ezinma and her mother sat on a mat on the floor after their supper of yam foo-foo and bitter-leaf soup.

A palm-oil lamp gave out yellowish light.

Without it, it would have been impossible to eat,-one could not have known where one's mouth was in the darkness of that night.

There was an oil lamp in all the four huts on Okonkwo's compound, and each hut seen from the others looked like a soft eye of yellow half-light set in the solid massiveness of night.

The world was silent except for the shrill cry of insects, which was part of the night, and the sound of wooden mortar and pestle as Nwayieke pounded her foo-foo.

Nwayieke lived four compounds away, and she was notorious for her late cooking.

Every woman in the neighbourhood knew the sound of Nwayieke's mortar and pestle.

It was also part of the night.

Okonkwo had eaten from his wives' dishes and was now reclining with his back against the wall.

He searched his bag and brought out his snuff-bottle.

He turned it on to his left palm, but nothing came out.

He hit the bottle against his knee to shake up the tobacco.

That was always the trouble with Okeke's snuff.

It very quickly went damp, and there was too much saltpetre in it.

Okonkwo had not bought snuff from him for a long time.

Idigo was the man who knew how to grind good snuff.

But he had recently fallen ill.