Nosso Constantino

Sister Lucília came running into the living room, where Cris and I were seated, carrying what appeared to be a bundle of dirty cloth. She set it down on the sofa chair next to me and opened it up to reveal a TINY little baby -- only slightly bigger than my hand. "He was born 5 days ago and his mother can't give him milk," Lucília said, "Let's clean him up."

He was completely naked and his little arms and legs were glued tightly to the sides of his body. "Constantino" -- a fitting name for the teeney prince set before us.

I ran down to our storage room and got the smallest baby clothes I could find and some clean blankets while Cris went to find a bottle and some baby milk powder. I came back to find that the "newborn" size baby jumpers drowned his small frame, but at least made him cleaner and warmer.

As I was dressing him, he laboredly opened his eyes -- perhaps for the first time, we imagined. I simply couldn't take my eyes off this little miracle before me. I put tiny, yet huge, grey socks on his minuscule feet and wrapped him in a white fleece blanket. Cris returned with the bottle and laughed at the new sight of him, "Well, look at this, we've made a western baby out of him!"

After dressing him and rocking him a bit, we took him back out to his mother who also murmured delightfully at his new outfit. We brought a bottle and milk and tried to ask her about how he had been eating to this point. The mother's Portuguese was limited and neither Cris nor I speak the local African language Chopi -- the mother pulled a limp breast out of her shirt, "It doesn't give milk," she explained, "I don't understand why!"

"So what have you been feeding him?" I asked her. But she didn't understand. "Has another woman been able to give him milk?" Sister Lucília asked with gestures. The mother shook her finger and looked down embarrassedly, "No, he has not eaten since he was born. I didn't know what to do. That's why I came here."

The three of us looked as each other in sad understanding. Sister Lucília asked the mother in a soft tone, "Do you have AIDS? You know, the very bad disease?" The mother nodded her head in affirmative. We all looked down at Constantino. "It's possible that he doesn't have it," I offered, "Since she couldn't give him milk."

We taught the mother how to make milk, but I worried how much she really understood us about how much to put in and how to boil the water, but then be sure to let it cool. I knew she would do her best, but she also wouldn't be able to read the Portuguese instructions on the can to remind herself of the process at home.

As I watched the young mother tie the tiny boy on her back and walk slowly out into the warm afternoon sun, I felt a pull on my heart. Let me take him home with me! He could be a great man -- with that name, Constantino, and those bright new eyes! He has a chance now... We've given him a new start...


I never saw the baby boy again. A few weeks later, his mother stopped by the house to tell Sister Lucília that Constantino had died. She didn't give a detailed explanation. When I wrote to Cris, now back in Spain, with this news, she alone could share the lost vision of Constatino the Great, "We always knew he had it hard, didn't we?" Yes, we did. I had a spark of hope. He found us, he spent 30 minutes in the arms of people with resources to change his life, but it just wasn't enough.