Displaced by the Russian invasion, Vira, carrying little but her precious viola da gamba, is a refugee in the Uniting for Ukraine program. When she is physically attacked soon after her arrival in the city of Baltimore in America, the terrifying experience prompts her to hide in plain sight by passing as her twin, Sevastyan, until he is able to join her.

Orson has been commissioned to write an opera for The Twelfth Night Festival, but he is suffering from composer’s block. Not only that, his muse, Isabella, has inexplicably withdrawn from all performing. During a chance meeting, Orson discovers the extraordinary musical talent of Vira, now passing as Sevastyan, and it gives him the jolt of inspiration he needs. Hoping that Isabella will be as intrigued as he is, Orson sends “Sevastyan” as his emissary to persuade Isabella to sing in his opera.

In this love-quadrangle seen from multiple points of view—some poignant, some hilarious—the myriad misconceptions that result from Vira’s deception are woven into themes of migration, sexuality, and diversity.

"From apartheid South Africa to the Freddie Gray riots in Baltimore, from migrating on wagons with oxen, to learning how to drive on the "wrong" side of the road on the beltway, this story reminds us that the human journey toward freedom, equality, and love is an ongoing thread that reaches toward a better future while connecting us to our troubled past."
— Jessica Anya Blau, author of "Mary Jane"

It is March 1815, the Napoleonic Wars are drawing to a close, and Sarah Barker sails from England with her new husband to minister to the indigenous Khoikhoi in South Africa.

It is July 1997, Nelson Mandela is the president of a recently independent South Africa, and I fly from South Africa to join my new husband in America to pursue a dream.

I became a writer so that I could find a way to articulate the life-changing experience of being an immigrant. By intertwining the experiences of Sarah and my own, I came to understand that the social issues of colonialism and immigration, of ethnic prejudice and genealogical roots, are both as urgent and as universal today as they have ever been.

Philida of the Cape worked as a knitter on the farm of Cornelis Brink in South Africa's Western Cape in the time leading up to the emancipation of slaves throughout the British Empire in 1830. But this is more than a story about slavery and colonization.

André Brink was inspired to write his final, Booker-nominated novel when he learned that Philida's owner had been one of his distant ancestors. Historical records show that, even within the constraints of society, politics, and discrimination, Philida was an indomitable young woman with an inner core of self-worth and a quirky, clear-eyed view of life.

André Brink's novel and my screenplay adaptation speak to the #MeToo and Black Lives Matter movements, yes, but it is Philida herself who is a compelling character in her own right. Her story remains resoundingly relevant today. 

In essays ranging from "That July Day," conjuring the overwhelming sensory experiences of my arrival in America; and "Simply Being There," facing the guilt of being a white South African growing up during apartheid; to "Trying on Patriotism," experiencing a nascent love for my adopted country, this memoir in essays is my attempt to articulate the thrilling and daunting experience of migration.