US-born comic Abigoliah Schamaun never thought she could be deported. But, as she explains in her new Edinburgh show Legally Cheeky, she found herself in court, fighting the UK Government to stay in London with her man. We asked her to talk more about the topic...

Have you ever seen the movie Footloose? I'm from a place like that. Only dancing was never outlawed and Kevin Bacon has never visited. I'm from a small town in Ohio. Most people I went to school with still live in The Midwest.

At 18, when I moved to New York City and it felt like a movie. Small town girl moves to the big city with even bigger dreams. And when the opportunity came to move to London, it was outside of the scope of anything I could imagine. I was now "exotic". People hear my accent and ask where I'm from. When I tell them, the next question is, "Well, how did you wind up over here?!" And I like that. It's fun to be impressive even though, in reality, I just bumbled my way through life, and I took an opportunity that gave me a chance to live in London.

Living in New York was fun. Living in a country you're not born into is privilege. Not everyone gets the chance, and - even people who do - aren't always able to make the leap. In the back of my head, there's always a little voice saying, "Behave yourself. They'll ask you to leave if you don't."

Since moving to the UK, I've watched immigration change. Brexit means there's no freedom of movement between the UK and the EU. When it happened, everyone assured me it'd make no difference to me because I'm American. But when the immigration noose starts to tighten, every foreigner feels the squeeze.

I wrote a show about applying for a visa and my application being rejected. And on the day I write this article, I have to go to a government building to get fingerprinted because I have to apply all over again. Because, even when you're granted entry to the UK, it doesn't last forever. I know my visa application is sitting on a bureaucrat's desk; they don't know me and don't care. If I forget to fill out one form, forget to submit one piece of evidence, they stamp rejected on my file, and there's little I can do about it. I either have to go back to the line and start all over again, or I have to leave. Sometimes you have to do both.

It feels like the Home Office doesn't look at why you should stay. Instead, they're combing through everything, looking for a reason to make you leave. So simple things that a UK Citizen might not think of I have to consider; I don't speed. I don't jaywalk. I don't go to protests. I'd like to go to one, but they can get out of hand, and people get arrested sometimes wrongly. Then that goes on your record, and it could be enough to say "no, she can't live here. She's trouble." So, I have to be good. Good all the time because I fear they would be no forgiveness even for the smallest infraction.

The British people I've met since moving here have been nothing but kind and welcoming. I love performing for your audiences. I love my friends and colleagues. On the day-to-day, I've had great experiences being here. But in the back of my mind, I know there is someone in an office who doesn't see me as a person, just a file number, and that's the person I'm scared of. Because they control my fate.

To them, it doesn't matter that I'm a good friend or a hard worker. They don't care that I'll water my neighbour's plants while they're away. They don't care that I've sold tickets at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. They only care I have enough money in my account to prove I'm financially viable, that I haven't committed a crime and that I filled out the application without a single error. One wrong box ticked, and I'm out. And that's what's in the back of my head. That's what's in the back of every foreign person's head who lives in a country they weren't born in. Not 'am I a good person?' But 'do I look good on paper?' Because, to the Home Office, that's all that matters.