Kasim had told himself the old crewman was sick and wouldn't have made it past the next few years anyway. But that was a lie; he would have fed his own mother to the beasts, to keep them alive.

The old man hadn’t screamed when they locked him in the cage with the animals. Perhaps it was the fatalistic attitude of a man who had led a long life at sea, or perhaps it was the rum they had given him. Either way, Kasim could not help but feel a pinch of admiration surface over the guilt when he saw the man facing his demise with steady feet, despite the alcohol and the sway of the boat.

Just a few days ago, Kasim could not wait to leave the shores of Africa. He was tired of the daily routine – greasing the palms of local officials and then looking for large quantities of fresh meat to feed the ill-tempered cargo.

They had travelled from Kenya to Somalia by truck and then transferred the large container onto a ship at Mogadishu. As soon as he was on board, Kasim realised he couldn’t wait to be on dry land again. The sea had been rough, which didn't bode well with the shipping container’s occupants. And the smell! Oh, the smell was revolting. It had seeped into their hair, their clothes, their very being. Then, when things couldn’t possibly get worse, the refrigeration units on the ship had broken down and all the meat they had bought in Mogadishu was spoiled.

Refrigerator or no refrigerator, the cargo had to be fed. If he reached Baghdad without any of the three monsters in immaculate condition he would be shot on the spot, after which they would turn their attention to his family.

It had been a logistical nightmare, even though Mamello – the owner of the illegal farm in Kenya –had told them there would be no problems. Things would be easier once the convoy touched Iraqi shores – bureaucracy and rules no longer mattered there – all he had to do was show them the letter with the presidential seal and he would be extended every courtesy.

By the time they reached Baghdad two weeks later, night had already fallen. The convoy made its way to the presidential palace. The mammoth iron gates were opened for them – they were expected.

Once inside, they drove past the main palace, the gardens, the fountains, the peacocks, the stables and the 20-car garage. They only stopped when they reached the second palace. The garish façade of the ostentatious building looked especially ugly in the fading light.

The staff had been forewarned of their arrival. A forklift crane stood in the courtyard. A servant with a blank expression stood beside it, holding a donkey by a string attached to its neck.

Kasim was sure the servant did not know why he had been told to bring a donkey and a forklift to the palace at midnight. He was equally sure the man hadn't given it a second thought – they were all used to strange orders from above. Kasim himself was a mechanic. Transporting wildlife had not been in his original job description.

Kasim dismounted from the cab of the massive truck and went about supervising the unloading of the cargo container.

When the containers were safely on the sprawling front lawn, he finally lit his first cigarette of the day. He had barely exhaled when a loud, pink Ferrari blaring even louder gangster rap sped down the drive of the palace. It screeched to a halt, narrowly missing the large cargo container.

A man in his thirties emerged from the Ferrari. He was wearing a pink suit, exactly the same shade as the colour of his car. He was over six feet tall and had neatly manicured stubble. Mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses were perched on his head. They misted and de-misted slightly every time he exhaled from the long Cuban cigar lodged in his mouth, just to the left of his two large, protruding front teeth.

He strode briskly towards them, his haste failing to mask the arrogant swagger with which he walked. ‘Where are they? Are they here?’ he shouted almost like a spoilt six-year-old asking for his Christmas present.

As soon as he was within four feet of the containers he recoiled and shouted, ‘Fuck! What is that smell?’ Then, composing himself, he said ‘Kasim? It's you, isn’t it? Did you shit your pants again, you ugly fuck?’ He laughed uproariously at his own joke.

Kasim stubbed out his cigarette – no one was allowed to smoke in Uday's presence. He smiled politely at the joke, though it was unlikely Uday was even looking at him; he never looked at his inferiors, only shouted at them.

Uday removed the lit Havana from his mouth and tossed it carelessly behind his back. It bounced off the hood of his Ferrari in a shower of sparks. He didn’t care – he had a new toy to play with. Three new toys, to be precise.

‘So, are they inside?’ he said beckoning to the containers. ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are,’ he sang and kicked the side of the container with his patent leather shoes.

A roar erupted from inside.

Unfazed, he continued. ‘I swear to god, Kasim, at least you could have shampooed them or something before you brought them into my presence. That stink is almost unbearable. Did they come with accessories?’

‘Accessories, your Excellency?’

‘Everything I need, you fool – especially collars for their necks. What good are they without studded collars?’

‘I'm sorry, your Excellency.’

‘You can't do one thing right can you, Kasim? I should have you shot right now, you bloody faggot.’

‘I'm sorry, your Excellency. Please.’

‘It’s OK. It’s fine.’ Uday sighed as if he were doing a great act of charity by putting up with the errant servant. ‘Just get them ready for tomorrow.’

‘What is tomorrow, your Excellency?’

‘Tomorrow is the big game you fool – Iraq versus Qatar. As Sporting Minister of Iraq, I wish to have the lions at my feet. It will remind the players of their fate if they don't score any goals.’ He smiled. Kasim did not have a shadow of a doubt that Uday was being deadly serious.

‘Your Excellency, the lions are not trained yet. They can be dangerous.’

‘You dare to lecture me? I wrote my thesis in biology. First class from Baghdad University!’

Kasim doubted that Uday had even read the title of the thesis that a team of academics had been hired to write on his behalf. But if Uday was killed by the lions, his father, Saddam, might hold him responsible for bringing them to Iraq in the first place.

‘Your Excellency, please, I am merely afraid for your safety.’

‘Don't you know anything, Kasim? In Egypt, the kings always had lions with them. Also that king in that movie, he had one. What's the name? Oh, never mind! Anyway, if those skirt-wearing Egyptian fucks can have a lion at their feet, why the fuck can't I?’

As he couldn't think of a suitable reply, Kasim decided to keep his mouth shut. Uday was not a king. He was merely the arrogant first-born child of Iraq’s president and dictator, Saddam Hussein. However, Kasim did not want to be the lion's first meal. He excused himself and went about the sordid affair of feeding the lions with the live donkey while Uday watched gleefully.