From Terror to Hope

By ogova ondego

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ComMattersKenya
• Release date: Jul 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201219239

Book preview

Chapter I

The early evening air resonated with shouts and songs of children dancing, wrestling and chasing one another about. While some engaged in bao playing, hide-and-seek and kati dodge ball, others enjoyed 'dad-and-mom' and ‘teacher’ role plays. Still, others were involved in hopscotch, leap-frog, bladder, rounders, and shake and tag. Laughter, shouting and music drifted through the evening, soothing away the worries of the day. Mouth-watering aroma of cooking meals mingled with the smell of contented cud-chewing cattle, sheep and goats as they returned home from the pastures.

But the gaiety faded as scattered black clouds started to crawl up and take positions across the clear blue sky above, casting fitful and frightening man-eating manani monster-like shadows across the earth. Even the twinkle-twinkling fire-flies that had floated in the music-laden air as the singing of crickets blended with that of children appeared to have retreated. Everyone trooped back to their homes, disappointed at an evening of fun cut short.

We had just had our evening meal and were preparing to go to bed. Suddenly spine-tingling screams rent the air. People were running here, there and everywhere. It was as if hell had been let loose with Satan’s legions of demons turning against one another in a vicious frenzy of killing and plunder. People were running about wildly, some carrying babies and children while others just ran on, all fleeing to the forest. Children, women and men ran as if they were possessed by devils in hell. Although the thick equatorial forest teemed with all kinds of ferocious wild animals, the fleeing people felt they would be much safer among them than in their own village where humanity's barbarity—whose recipe must have been concocted in the deep annals of hell itself—made the savage leopards, lions, cobras and puff adders appear welcoming.

Not used to such great confusion and fearing that someone might steal our cattle and sheep, Dad opened the door a crack and peeped out. Other than for the running people everything else seemed to be in its rightful place.

Leaving the door ajar, he stepped out to inspect the compound further. The next thing I heard was a loud bang and saw Dad go down.

Gracious Lord, I commit my family into your care, he said as he hit the ground. And as a volley of bullets pumped into his body making him writhe in pain, he managed to say, Forgive them, Lord.

Within no time Dad was no more. My father. My hero. Faithful friend and companion. Dad. Tolerant and compassionate. Thoughtful, considerate and good-hearted. He who had made me know what it meant to be loved and appreciated. He who had made me feel that no child was ever loved more than I. He whose only fault was that he always tried to make things right for others and never for himself.

Dead? No! My father could not be dead. This was