My entire life was turned upside down, one afternoon by a single sheet of paper.
On it, in bold letters, were the following words: ‘Your right to remain has been refused. You must now leave the UK.’
I’ll never forget that feeling of finding out my family could stay but I, a 20-year-old student who had called the UK home for almost a decade, had been rejected.
What followed was an agonising, debilitating and frankly exhausting three-year battle to overturn that deportation letter and prove that, not only do I live here, but I have the right to.
Though I was born in Zimbabwe, we moved to South Africa six months later.
Life there was like any other normal childhood.
Then, when I was 12, in 2007, my family moved to the UK in search of a better life. My dad was working in telecommunications and was granted a highly skilled migrant visa by the UK.
I was sad to leave but I was also excited about the life we could have in England.
Initially, we lived in Surrey while my parents searched for a house. I loved it there but we soon moved to our own house in Woking and after I started boarding school aged 14, we all relocated for the final time to the Isle of Wight in 2012.
After that, life settled into a comfortable, normal rhythm: I discovered a love for playing rugby, enjoyed attending festivals with friends, and – something that seemed even more achievable once I accepted a place to study performing arts at university.
Life was good and, as far as I was concerned, our roots were here now.
However, in 2015 my mum, siblings, and I all had to apply for indefinite leave to remain on family grounds, no longer as as my dad’s dependents, since he exceeded the travel limit on his visa unknowingly.
Our lawyers advised us to apply on family grounds – the UK was our permanent home, and we had all fully integrated into education, work and the community.
Weeks later, my mum and siblings received their letters of acceptance. Mine was not there, and it didn’t come for months.
When it finally did, my world turned upside down, I was rejected.
I thought it had to be a mistake.
When I read those words – which essentially told me to abandon everyone and everything I knew immediately, or face a £5,000 fine, or worse, six months in prison – I could have cried.
Under the bold letters it said I could appeal the decision, but only after I’d left.
I couldn’t go back to South Africa because I wasn’t a national. I didn’t know a soul in Zimbabwe. The UK was the only country I called home.
I was confused, angry, devastated and afraid. And I wasn’t alone – my family, friends, my then-girlfriend and her family were mortified.
Our immigration solicitors said they knew the decision was wrong and advised me to stay in the UK while we appealed. The process involved numerous emails, calls and conversations between my family and lawyers.
I went back to London and tried to pretend life was normal.
One by one though, the dominoes started to fall.
It started with me being pulled out of class and told I couldn’t continue studying due to the change in my immigration status.
Then, I discovered I couldn’t work or even volunteer.
The impact was brutal – it broke me. I had to stop my studies, and still be around my friends and then-girlfriend, all working towards their dissertations, to graduate, and get their first jobs.
Every day was spent waiting for an update – none came.
In 2016, a year after I’d received the letter, I learned the appeal had failed.
Our lawyers informed me the refusal was on the same grounds as the first application – that my claim was unfounded.
My only hope now was to argue my case in court.
I spent the next 12 months gathering testimonials in support from relatives, friends, associates, family friends, old teachers – in the end I had over 50, all strongly demonstrating that I was ingrained in this society.
In September 2017, I went before the tribunal.
After all the legal arguments had been made, time seemed to stand still. Eventually, the judge spoke and he said we would receive his verdict in writing.
A further agonising 15 days wait followed and then, on September 19 another letter arrived at my family’s home. Buried on page ten was confirmation from the judge that the original decision to deport me was an error.
He had allowed my appeal.
The judge said I was clearly integrated – which was proved by the evidence, my statements of support, and the people who attended my tribunal.
Everyone was relieved and overjoyed.
I had autonomy back. I had my freedom back after almost three years and £6,000.
As much as I wanted to make up for lost time, I also wanted to share my story to stop this happening to anyone else – that’s when I had a conversation with UK theatre company Stand & Be Counted about creating something about my story.
Together, we worked on a theatre show called Where We Began, which toured nationally to critical acclaim in 2018. It explored the themes of identity, belonging and deportation.
Then, three years ago, I began writing my solo show Ripples – which reclaims my story.
It was so exciting to have the show launch in Sheffield and Oldham, near to where I now live, in September, 2025 – which ran for three weeks.
Ripples is now set to return in 2027, produced by Stand & Be Counted Theatre.
It’s been a decade since that dreaded letter and I still have to reapply for my limited leave to remain every two and a half years – because of their error, I had to start a ten-year route for indefinite leave to remain from scratch.
So I will be applying for settlement in 2027, even though I will have lived in the UK for almost two thirds of my life.
While I do it without question, I worry about what happens if the Home Office makes another mistake.
This time, I’ll be ready.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing [email protected].
Share your views in the comments below.
