I was trying to put one of my mother's sayings into English and found that every accurate version sounded like instructions from a school noticeboard. In Swahili I can hear her impatience and affection together, in English I kept producing advice. Perhaps the missing part isn't another word but the person who said it, the way she looked at me before I had even finished my latest wonderful plan. My wife offered her version and I objected immediately, then realised hers sounded more like something a person would actually say. Naturally I have not admitted complete defeat. I wrote both down. The notebook now contains an argument instead of a proverb, which is also family history.

Madam says I cannot blame the train for making me tired when I spent the whole journey standing to explain something to a man who had a perfectly good seat opposite me. But sitting would have reduced the hand movements! By the time I reached the café my throat was dry and my knees were quite ready to negotiate, so I sat with water before ordering anything. The first quiet five minutes felt very good, feet flat, shoulders loose, nobody requiring a translation. Then the waiter asked where I had been and the mouth started again. At home my voice was rough enough that my wife could hear the day's mileage. I insisted I had rested. Technically accurate, briefly.

My grandson sent a message saying he still hadn't heard back from the family who might know our old cook in Dar. I replied not to worry, these things take time, wisdom from the man who checked the page before brushing his teeth. I felt foolishly disappointed, as if the boy had promised me an answer today. He has done more than I managed in years. What frightens me a little is how much I want somebody there to remember the same man I remember, not just a name that looks right on a screen. Madam asked whether I was quiet because of the search. I said yes, for once without improving the answer with a joke. She sat beside me until I started talking again.