Power in Performance: Tiwa Savage and the Female Gaze Fightback

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          Tiwa Savage’s Koroba isn’t just a hit song, it’s a bold statement. With its catchy beat and confident lyrics, the music video grabs attention. But beyond the glam and rhythm, it raises important questions about how women, especially how Black Nigerian women are seen in music videos. Is Tiwa showing her power, or is she being shown off for others to enjoy? This essay looks at Koroba through two big ideas: Laura Mulvey’s male gaze, which talks about how women are often shown through the eyes of men, and bell hooks’ oppositional gaze, which encourages Black women to take back control of how they’re seen. With these two views in mind, we explore whether Koroba is more about being looked at—or about looking back.

          Let’s start with Laura Mulvey. She said that in most films and videos, women are shown in ways that please men. The camera often focuses on their bodies, showing them as sexy or desirable, not as full human beings. This is called the “male gaze.” In Koroba, it’s clear that Tiwa Savage is dressed and filmed in a way that highlights her beauty and body. The camera slowly follows her movements, zooms in on her curves, and shows her in outfits that are stylish but also revealing. Even though she sings about power and choice, the way the video is shot sometimes feels like it’s made to attract male attention. Under Mulvey’s idea, Tiwa is at risk of being seen more as an object—someone to look at—rather than a subject who tells her own story.

          However, Koroba isn’t just about looking good. The song actually says a lot about real problems in Nigerian society. Tiwa sings, “If I follow politician, dem go call am prostitution,” pointing out how women are often judged unfairly for chasing success or being seen with powerful men. But men don’t face the same kind of judgment. So while the visuals show her looking glamorous, the lyrics are calling out society’s double standards. She’s saying, “Why is it wrong when I do it, but okay when a man does the same?” This clash—between the message of the song and the sexy way the video is shot—can be confusing. On one hand, she’s speaking truth to power. On the other hand, she’s still playing into the same beauty standards and sexy image that the music industry often expects from women.

          This is where bell hooks comes in. Unlike Mulvey, who focused on how women are looked at, hooks talked about how Black women can fight back by “looking” in a different way. She called this the oppositional gaze. It means that Black women don’t just accept the way they’re shown in media—they question it, challenge it, and even change it. From this view, Koroba is more than a sexy video. Tiwa knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s not just dressing up to please others—she’s using fashion, beauty, and performance to show power, confidence, and pride in who she is. She stares straight into the camera, sings without shame, and refuses to explain herself. This is what hooks calls a form of resistance: refusing to be reduced to just a body or a stereotype.

          In Nigeria, where women in the spotlight are often judged harshly, Tiwa’s boldness really stands out. She talks openly about topics that many women are expected to stay quiet about—dating powerful men, enjoying money, living big. While some may see this as showing off, others see it as bravery. She’s flipping the script. Instead of letting society shame her, she embraces her choices and tells her story her own way. hooks would say this is powerful because it gives other Black women permission to do the same—to take control of their own image and speak their truth without fear.

          That said, it’s important to admit the tension. Even though Tiwa might be using beauty and fashion to show strength, those same tools are often used to control women in the media. Her video still follows a certain formula: sexy outfits, slow camera shots, and glamorous styling. These choices might attract attention, but they also risk turning her into just another image to be consumed. It’s a tricky balance. She’s challenging the system, but she’s also using its rules to win. And maybe that’s part of her strategy. Instead of fighting the system head-on, she’s playing it smart—using the male gaze to get attention, and then flipping the message to say something deeper.

          This mix of being looked at and looking back is what makes Koroba so interesting. Through Mulvey’s lens, we see how Tiwa might still be caught in a system that treats women like objects. But through hooks’ lens, we see how she fights back—by owning her image, choosing how she’s shown, and speaking her truth. Both ideas are true at the same time. She’s navigating a world that wants to define her, while still trying to define herself.

          In the end, Koroba is not a simple story of good or bad, feminist or not. It’s a layered performance by a woman who knows the game and chooses how to play it. Tiwa Savage may be filmed through the male gaze, but she doesn’t let that stop her from speaking boldly. She uses the camera not just to be seen, but to be heard. And for many Nigerian women—especially young ones—this is powerful. It shows that femininity and feminism can exist together. You can be sexy and smart, critical and confident, seen and still in control.

So, who really owns Tiwa Savage’s image in Koroba? The camera might try to shape it, and society might try to judge it—but at the end of the day, it’s clear she’s the one calling the shots. She may be working within a system shaped by men, but she’s not following their script. She’s writing her own.

This reclamation is especially significant within the Nigerian context, where women in the public eye are often subject to moral policing. Tiwa’s visual and lyrical assertion of her right to exist outside these boundaries becomes radical. She doesn’t shy away from associations with wealth or the controversial idea of a woman being “kept