It has been too long since I read Chinua Achebe's . I can't say that I remember anything beyond (a) reading it and (b) the inscription with Yeats' poem.
Even the reason I read it is a little suspect. I was (and if you've been reading me on a regular basis, you'll believe this but it will confirm your suspicions that I might not be all there) reading my way through the Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, public library. You see, sometimes when I couldn't decide on a book, I'd just start with the A's and take down the next one I hadn't read. In this way, I read all of Alcott, Austen, Aldrich, Abe and Achebe. Things Fall Apart was the only work of Achebe's on the shelf.
To my discredit, I haven't followed up. In my defense, I believe that if I do manage to circle back to Achebe, re-read Things Fall Apart, and go on from there to , , , and , I will do so with a lifetime of greater experience and a much greater ability to comprehend, than I brought to that first reading.
Chinua Achebe's death this past week reminds me. These books go on the bucket list.