Tomorrow Is Too Far
The narrator, now an adult, flies back to Nigeria and arrives at Grandmama’s old homestead. She walks through the overgrown yard, recalling the heat, tangled telephone wires, and fruit‑laden trees of the last summer she spent there before her parents’ divorce. Grandmama’s yard is described in vivid detail: mangoes on cashew trees, guavas on mango trees, a soggy leaf carpet, and the avocado tree where she once watched Nonso climb.
The narrator remembers how Grandmama taught her brother Nonso to shake fruit, but refused to teach the narrator because “girls never pluck coconuts.” She also remembers Grandmama’s story about the echi eteka (“Tomorrow Is Too Far”), a snake that could kill in ten minutes.
The recollection turns to the fatal summer: Nonso’s death. On a mild August day, after a drizzle, Nonso climbs the avocado tree. Grandmama and the narrator shout at him, invoking the snake legend and pressuring him to prove his worth. Nonso slips, falls, and dies on the spot. Grandmama screams at his limp body, accusing him of betraying the Nnabuisi name. A neighbor from across the road intervenes, obtains the narrator’s American phone number, and calls the narrator’s mother in California. The neighbor comforts the narrator with water and tries to shield her from Grandmama’s frantic phone conversation.
The mother, on the phone, repeatedly asks, “Are you all right?” and, after a sob, promises to arrange for Nonso’s body to be flown back to America. Grandmama, however, argues the body should stay, saying his spirit belongs to the earth and the trees.
Eighteen years later, the narrator stands by the avocado tree, now grown, while Dozie—her cousin and the only other survivor of that summer—arrives from the airport. He greets her cautiously, mentions their mother’s life in a California commune, and watches her touch the tree trunk. Their conversation circles around the past: Dozie reveals he never imagined the narrator would return because she hated Grandmama; the word “hate” hangs between them. The narrator’s thoughts drift to the funeral in Virginia, the mother’s black veil, the father’s dashiki, and the silence that followed. She reflects on how the mother later framed the divorce as unrelated to Nonso’s death, while the father warned her to be careful with words.
Through the scene, the narrator realizes that her childhood self had imagined scaring Nonso with the snake story to make him fall, hoping to diminish his presence. She recalls how she had urged Dozie to help her push Nonso up, how she shouted “A snake! The echi eteka!” and watched him slip. The memory fuels a painful mix of guilt, resentment, and unresolved grief that saturates the present moment under the avocado tree.