Tiwa Savage’s Koroba music video is striking, not just for its vibrant visuals and catchy rhythm, but for the complex story it tells about being a Nigerian woman in today’s world. Beneath the glamorous scenes and confident lyrics lies a layered portrayal of femininity that invites serious reflection, especially through the lens of feminist film theory. One of the clearest ways to examine this is through Laura Mulvey’s concept of the male gaze. According to Mulvey, film often frames women not as full characters, but as visual objects made to please straight male viewers. In Koroba, this theory comes is true in the way Tiwa’s body is captured: the camera frequently zooms in on her curves, lingers on her hips and thighs, and isolates her body parts from her face. The results equals to an emphasis on sex appeal that prioritizes how desirable she looks over what she feels or thinks. Even in scenes where there’s an actual storyline, like the salon gossip session, the camera often returns to showing her body as the main attraction. It’s a reminder that, even when a woman is telling a story, the frame may still treat her as decoration.
This effect becomes even more apparent when we look at how the video moves. The camera doesn’t just record her dance steps, it moves in motion with the dance. There are slow-motion shots, close-ups of swaying hips, and calculated angles that turn her into a sensual spectacle. Again, these movements aren’t inherently wrong or shameful; Tiwa is performing, and performance is part of music videos. But the way the shots are edited—the rhythm, the lighting, the pace—leans heavily into a formula that’s all too common: woman as eye candy. The settings also play a role here. Whether she’s in a luxurious mansion, a smoky club, or a posh salon, she’s framed in environments that show luxury and sensuality. The message this sends is clear: Tiwa’s presence is visually indulgent, curated for pleasure. In this way, the video supports Mulvey’s idea that women in media are often positioned to be looked at rather than listened to.
But things get more interesting when we bring in bell hooks and her idea of the oppositional gaze. hooks invites Black women to look back and to challenge how they’re shown on screen and to claim their right to see and be seen differently. Through this lens, Koroba offers more than just glamorized objectification. A Black feminist viewer might watch Tiwa’s gaze into the camera and see not vulnerability, but power. Tiwa doesn’t shy away from being seen, she owns it. Her eye contact is steady, her expressions bold, almost playful. . This shifts the meaning of the video. Instead of being passively displayed, Tiwa becomes an active force in the performance. She uses the same tools which are beauty, style, movement—to control her image, not surrender it.
What this means is that the same images that might seem objectifying in one context can feel empowering in another. For a viewer influenced by hooks’ theory, Tiwa’s performance can be read as a reclaiming of her own body. Her dance, her clothes, even her posture—these aren’t just for show; they’re choices. She’s setting the terms of her visibility. A perfect example is the salon scene. When women gossip about her lifestyle and insinuate that she’s benefitting from a sugar daddy, she responds with sarcasm and confidence. That scene doesn’t just play for laughs—it critiques societal judgments about women who are financially successful and sexually autonomous. It turns the gossip back on itself. This ability to be both the topic and the storyteller—both the spectacle and the mind behind it—echoes hooks’ belief that Black women can challenge and reshape how they’re portrayed on screen.
Still, the tension between empowerment and commodification lingers. Tiwa’s confidence is real, and so is her control. But the music industry she operates in is global, patriarchal, and deeply capitalist. It profits from selling women’s bodies as fantasy. And Koroba, for all its strength and boldness, still plays into that system. The visuals—no matter how controlled—are polished for consumption. The glamour, the sex appeal, the close-ups—they sell an image that’s desirable and clickable. There’s nothing wrong with looking good or performing beauty, but it becomes complicated when that beauty becomes a product. In that sense, Tiwa is doing what many powerful women have done before her: using a system that objectifies them to build their own platform. It’s a balancing act, and it’s not without risk.
In the Nigerian context, this complexity hits harder. Tiwa Savage is more than a pop star; she’s a cultural figure navigating multiple expectations. She’s expected to be sexy but not “too much,” successful but not arrogant, modern but not un-Nigerian. The very gaze that celebrates her can also turn around and judge her. So while she asserts power in Koroba, she also walks a fine line. The music industry in Nigeria—like in many parts of the world—is still heavily male-dominated. For a woman like Tiwa to rise, she has to be savvy about how she presents herself. That means sometimes embracing the aesthetics that get attention, even if they reinforce stereotypes. A viewer aware of both Mulvey and hooks would understand this: Tiwa may be pushing back against the gaze, but she’s also surviving inside it.
In the end, analyzing Koroba through the lenses of Mulvey and hooks shows us how layered visual storytelling can be. Mulvey helps us see how the camera’s eye can turn a woman into an object, split up for desire. But hooks challenges us to look again, to see the woman who is looking back, controlling the narrative, and making choices. Tiwa Savage isn’t just being watched; she’s also watching. Her performance is fierce, funny, and full of tension. She gives us sex appeal and satire, vulnerability and power. It’s not clean or simple but that’s what makes it real. For Black women viewers, and especially Nigerian women, Koroba might reflect something deeply familiar: the daily work of being visible, desirable, respected, and in control—all at once. And in that mess of beauty, politics, and performance, Tiwa reminds us that owning your image is, in itself, a form of resistance.
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