Tiwa Savage’s Koroba is a bold, satirical music video that mixes vivid imagery with strong socio-political commentary. Yet, despite its feminist tones, the video raises layered questions about how Black Nigerian womanhood is portrayed—especially through Laura Mulvey’s male gaze and bell hooks’ oppositional gaze. This analysis examines how the camera’s portrayal of Tiwa’s body, setting, and performance reveals the ongoing clash between empowerment and commodification, particularly within a media space still shaped by patriarchal and capitalist structures.
In her essay Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema (1975), Laura Mulvey argues that in mainstream media, women are often displayed as visual pleasures for the male viewer, rather than active participants in the narrative. This objectification is maintained through camera techniques, fragmentation of the female form, and how women are positioned in the storyline.
In Koroba, the camera often captures Tiwa’s body in ways that isolate and spotlight sexualized areas (her hips, legs, cleavage), especially in dance scenes. Even though she’s clearly aware of being watched and performs with confidence, the slow-motion clips, tight framing, and low angles echo methods commonly used in objectifying portrayals.
For example, during the chorus, Tiwa moves in snug African prints as the camera zooms in on her waist and hips, often leaving her face out of the frame. This disconnect between her identity and her body supports Mulvey’s argument that women are frequently treated as “to-be-looked-at” rather than fully present subjects.
Tiwa’s clothing is stylish and culturally expressive but undeniably crafted to highlight sensuality. From backless outfits to high-slit skirts, there’s a dual intention: claiming power through self-representation, and attracting attention through sexual appeal. Her movements—fluid, intentional, and seductively rhythmic—can be seen as displays of agency. Yet, within the male gaze, those same motions risk being reduced to erotic performance.
The locations (luxurious homes, upscale markets, etc.) reflect status and affluence, suggesting power. But when paired with objectifying shots, the message becomes conflicted: is Tiwa asserting control, or being used as a symbol of high-value femininity meant to entice male desire?
In The Oppositional Gaze (1992), bell hooks introduces the concept of Black female spectatorship as an act of rebellion. For Black women, engaging critically with media and rejecting harmful depictions becomes a form of resistance. The oppositional gaze challenges both sexism and racism, especially in media shaped by male or Western frameworks.
While the male gaze may reduce Tiwa’s image to an object of desire, a Black feminist lens might see her choices as a way of reclaiming power. Her body isn’t being offered—it’s being wielded with purpose to critique corruption, call out double standards, and flaunt her freedom with defiance.
Where the male gaze may view Koroba as simply pleasurable, the oppositional gaze interprets it as sharp commentary. The lyric, “If I follow politician, you go hear am for paper / They go call am prostitution…” isn't just memorable—it exposes how Nigerian society polices and sexualizes women who seek wealth or autonomy outside patriarchal rules.
Tiwa’s provocative visuals aren’t accidental—they’re purposeful. She’s flipping the script on a system that hides behind moral values but thrives on exploitation. Her body, movement, and lyrics become tools of critique, not surrender. Her performance walks the line between self-empowerment (controlling her image, voicing political truths) and commodification (adhering to beauty and desirability standards for mass appeal). The oppositional gaze doesn’t resolve this contradiction—it leans into it and asks deeper questions:
· Can true freedom exist if empowerment must still appear sexy to be accepted?
· Can the gaze ever fully belong to her in a capitalist, male-dominated industry?
Koroba is more than a music video; it’s a battleground of interpretations. Through the male gaze, Tiwa is presented as an object shaped for consumption. But through the oppositional gaze, she becomes layered—defying respectability, reclaiming her sexuality, and speaking back to systems that silence her.
The video doesn’t provide neat answers, and that’s what makes it powerful. It forces us to hold space for contradiction: Black Nigerian femininity can be both desired and defiant, both framed and self-possessed. Ultimately, it’s the viewer’s gaze that defines the takeaway.
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