where the writers are
A Sunday drive with death (excerpt)

Without a word we hurried to our car, a Lada four wheel drive, cheap, Russian-made. We were going home. I kept my eyes on the road, trying to be invisible. One mile until the bridge to Kusseri and the border with Cameroon. I heard the screeching sound of a mass of steel grinding to a halt.

The man had said, Do not die.