The Lost Love Songs of Boysie Singh is the new novel from Ingrid Persaud, whose debut Love After Love won the Costa First Novel Award 2020 and the Indie Book Award for Fiction 2021.
The real Boysie Singh was a notorious Trinidadian gangster. Whilst Ingrid was researching this story, her research kept coming back to very important women in his life. The Lost Love Songs of Boysie Singh is inspired by these women and tells the story of four.
In the first in a series of extracts on our site to celebrate publication, meet one of Boysie’s childhood friends, Rosie.
‘Man dead and he’s still making front page. And look at that. Boysie playing innocent down to the end. Exactly who that badjohn think he fooling?’
While the shop ain’t busy I told myself, Rosie girl, drink a cup of coffee-tea and check the papers. Nobody’s coming for a shot of rum this hour and on the dry goods side it’s always one-one person throughout the day. Aye, aye, I ain’t sit down good when I spotted the wretch. Man dead and he’s still making front page. And look at that. Boysie playing innocent down to the end. Exactly who that badjohn think he fooling? At least now he’s in the ground we might get an ease from seeing him all the time. Something else will take over the news. Every night the Lord’s seen me on my knees begging that boy doesn’t fill the gap he’s left. They say goat don’t make sheep. Well, this is one time I hope they’re wrong, yes.
A sudden hard rain made me put down the papers. Two schoolchildren, a girl about seven and a boy child a little younger, rushed to shelter under the shop awning. The way she held on to the boy I could tell she was a good big sister. I called to them.
Come inside and don’t get wet. You see how the sun still shining? Rain go pass now for now.
They came and stood by the door. I smiled.
Come in. Come in. I don’t bite.
The girl pulled her brother where they were safe from the pelting rain.
You know that when sun shining and rain falling, monkey does be marrying. Either that or the devil and he wife fighting.
Poor children looked at me like I was about to gobble them up.
A good five minutes hadn’t passed and rain stopped just so. The two bolted. I watched them speed off, holding hands tight tight. Steam rose from the hot pitch, releasing a sickly sweet smell that made me feel slightly nauseous. Then something happened. Maybe it was the pitch smell or the little boy and girl holding hands or just reading the death notice. Could be all three. Suddenly I realised what had been bothering my head. I was thinking of Boysie.
What’s that game children play? The one with two circles holding hands and singing in turns. Oh, yes,
In a fine castle,
Do you hear, my sissie-o?
In a fine castle,
Do you hear, my sissie-o?
Without missing a beat, the second circle would reply.
Ours is the prettiest,
Do you hear, my sissie-o?
Ours is the prettiest,
Do you hear, my sissie-o?
What song did we throw back? Ah yes,
We want one of them,
Do you hear, my sissie-o?
We want one of them,
Do you hear, my sissie-o?
From the side, under a laden guava tree, a boy, had to be less than ten, was watching us playing in the road. Our eyes made four. Without words he knew that we coolie orphans, holding hands while singing louder and louder, had room for other unclaimed children.
Which of us do you want?
Do you hear, my sissie-o?
I broke hands mid-song so he could join my circle. He came forward slowly and gave me his hand. That little hand squeezed mine just a bit tighter than the others. I squeezed back.
Which of us do you want?
Do you hear, my sissie-o?
A scared boy, out on the road by he-self, nobody looking to see what he was doing, that barefoot, raggedy child grew into John Boysie Singh, the Rajah. How that happened?
An unforgettable story of four incredible women: this novel combines the depth, and flair of The Seven Moons Maali Almeida with the devastating brilliance and truth of A Brief History of Seven Killings.