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My mother and father didn't love each other, so they were always fighting.

It was endlessly entertaining, watching people beat each other up. All the little kids in the neighborhood would come and watch... and then we'd beat them up as well.

I either had to concentrate on fighting, or I had to help my family. I chose my family. I love my mom; I love my family.

I had to fight all my life to survive. They were all against me... but I beat the bastards and left them in the ditch.

When I was a kid, I had to fight for everything.

But while mum and dad were incredibly caring, it was also a very chaotic household where everyone fought about everything. So I know what it's like to internalize all that chaos.

I wasn't a fighting kid or a causing-trouble kid. I was just one of those cheeky, crazy kids running around.

I was one of those children forced into fighting at the age of 13, in my country Sierra Leone, a war that claimed the lives of my mother, father and two brothers. I know too well the emotional, psychological and physical burden that comes with being exposed to violence as a child or at any age for that matter.

I would have rebelled against parental authority, no matter what. When I was 15, I started painting my face and making my own clothes.

My father would chaperone at high-school dances, and the toughest guy in the high school used to want to fight my father. My father broke his hand on a guy's head once in school.