Rootless: Love, Duty & Identity

Some novels reach into your chest, twist your heart, and refuse to let go. Rootless by Krystle Zara Appiah is one of them. A debut that feels anything but, Appiah masterfully navigates themes of love, sacrifice, and self-worth with a quiet intensity that lingers long after the final page.

At its core, Rootless is a story about expectations—those placed on us by family, culture, and society and the even heavier ones we put on ourselves. Efe and Sam begin with a love that feels destined, full of tenderness and promise. But love alone is rarely enough to sustain one’s self-worth, and as time passes, the weight of marriage, motherhood, and unspoken obligations begin to fracture their bond.

For Efe, the pressure is twofold. As a woman, she’s expected to be a devoted wife and mother. But as a Ghanaian woman, these expectations carry an even heavier cultural weight. Marriage and motherhood are often seen as milestones of success, and any deviation from this path can be met with judgment, shame, or guilt. Appiah doesn’t shy away from these complexities; instead, she invites readers into Efe’s internal turmoil as she grapples with the feeling of being trapped and unseen.

Mental health is a quiet but powerful force in this novel. Efe’s struggles aren’t loud or dramatic; they are slow, suffocating, and painfully real. The stigma surrounding maternal mental health—particularly in cultures where women are expected to endure—is palpable. The novel asks difficult but necessary questions: What happens when a woman’s desires don’t align with what society expects of her? How much of herself is she required to sacrifice for love?

This novel kept reminding me of Pearl S. Buck’s The Good Earth. Efe’s struggles in Rootless—feeling trapped by the expectations of marriage, motherhood, and cultural traditions—echo O-Lan’s journey in The Good Earth. While O-Lan silently endures hardship in a patriarchal system, Efe resists in her own way, though both women ultimately suffer under the weight of expectations that deny them agency.

The biggest difference? While Buck’s novel often presents O-Lan’s suffering as inevitable within the cycle of fortune and hardship, Rootless feels more like a personal rebellion against that inevitability. Efe isn’t content to disappear into the framework of wife and mother, even if it means making painful choices. Efe is literally the anti-O-Lan.

Appiah’s writing is stunning in its restraint. Every word carries weight, and the emotions simmer just beneath the surface, creating an undercurrent of tension that builds throughout the novel. There are no easy answers in Rootless, no neatly tied-up endings. Instead, Appiah forces us to sit with the discomfort of Efe’s choices and reflect on how we, too, shape and are shaped by the roles we are expected to play.

If you love novels that are intensely character-driven, emotionally rich, and unafraid to tackle the complexities of identity, Rootless is a must-read. It’s the kind of book that demands discussion invites reflection and makes you wonder about all the women—past and present—who have struggled under the weight of expectations and dared to dream of something more.