Well, no. Not when pastors are encouraging their flocks to blame their troubles on their young children by accusing them of witchcraft (or ‘kindoki’) when they wet the bed or have nightmares. Happily, they’ll provide a ‘deliverance’ service for a price, with treatments including torture, starvation and beating of the uncomprehending kids in question.
This debut documentary from Congo-born, London-raised Kevani Kanda – whose own cousin has been ostracised because of claims of kindoki – is a profoundly shocking one, but these upsetting cases are no longer confined to Africa.The appalling fates of young Londoners Victoria Climbié and Kristy Bamu, both murdered by relatives attempting exorcisms, have proved as much. Beyond better education and wider publicity, Kanda offers few answers – but the questions she asks may haunt you for days.
Essentially, HintHunt is like ‘The Crystal Maze’ meets ‘LA Confidential’. You and three or four mates are locked in a ’40s-style detective office. You’ll notice the crime scene outline of a body drawn on the floor. A screen in the corner starts counting down from 60 minutes: you’ve got to figure out how to escape before the timer gets down to zero. It’s pretty leisurely at first. That 60 minutes stretches out in front of you like a Peter Jackson trilogy. You rummage through drawers with the insouciance of a bored cleaning lady. But, before long, someone goes: ‘Oh shit! We’ve already had 15 minutes!’ Thus begins the concentration phase. Maths types try bullying integers into opening combination locks. Wannabe Columbos lasciviously eyeball black-and-white photos. The office is searched so thoroughly that it begins to look like it was built over a fault line. And occasionally, the room rings with the slap of high-fiving palms and yells of ‘I’ve cracked it!’ As the end nears, it’s as though the universe’s remote got its fast-forward button jammed down. Ideas fly thick and fast. People move around the room at a speed usually reserved for kiddies who’ve left it too long to wee. The ticking clock becomes so all consumingly important it’s like a ‘24’ finale, albeit without the slide into self-parodic cackiness. Then, before you know it, it’s over. If you succeed, there are so many ‘yeahs!’ it’s as though someone’s auditioning Usher impersonators. If you don’t? Well, firstly, it’s g
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