When I looked behind, what had been my home was engulfed in flames and a continuous chorus of gunfire, anguished cries and moans, and the smell of cow dung, millet, sorghum and grass-thatched huts blended together in a sad potpourri of sorrow, shattered dreams and a bleak future. What had I done, at 12, to deserve this fate?

I had lost everything I cherished and had despised and hated God for it. But 12 years later, the same subject of my spite had brought the Armstrongs on the scene and had blessed me immensely as proof that no one shows God to a child. Just as my parents had always taught me.

Many people—including journalists who are never known to show emotion openly—could be seen pulling out their handkerchiefs and wiping away a tear or two as they listened to me. Perhaps they were wondering why some people suffer so much misery.