At first glance, Biodun Stephen’s Labake Olododo seems like a promising story about an equestrian warrior in precolonial Nigeria, and how she wielded power in a male-dominated world. We’re introduced to the titular Labake (played by Iyabo Ojo), a fearsome and respected army commander in Lukosi, driven by her desire to avenge her father’s death. She is ambitious, passionate about her military career, and committed to protecting her community.
But as the story unfolds, her ambitions are quietly pushed aside. Labake develops feelings for Jaiyeoba, a local school teacher played by Tayo Faniran, and is quickly derailed. Her focus shifts from political strategy to romantic pursuit. We watch this once-commanding warrior get sidetracked, going out of her way to impress a man who is, frankly, unremarkable.
In Chinaza Onuzo’s A Lagos Love Story, set in contemporary times, the arc is similar. To pay off a loan and save her family home, Promise Quest (played by Jemima Osunde) must step up and take charge. But once she becomes the concierge to King Kator (played by Mike Afolarin), a bad boy musician, her priorities shift. Her mission is sidelined in favour of a relationship with him. In Reel Love starring Timini Egbuson and Finding Me by Funke Akindele, we see the same trope — women abandoning their personal goals the moment a man enters the frame.
The idea that a woman’s life is incomplete without a man — and that she must shrink herself to keep him — is one of Nollywood’s oldest, most pervasive lies. A lie that keeps getting sold to us, wrapped in the glitter of romance.
But are these love stories even romantic? Who wants to be loved like this?
ALSO READ: What’s That Smell? It’s Not Ayra Starr, It’s Misogyny
By presenting these films as aspirational romances, Nollywood reinforces the kind of warped messaging that underpins “alpha male” influencer culture — the idea that women with ambition, wealth or power are less likely to find love.
Time and time again, these stories fail to portray romantic relationships that are mutually fulfilling. As Promise abandons her mission to secure her family’s financial future, King Kator’s career continues to rise, culminating in a triumphant concert. Labake, meanwhile, trades her military uniform for a floral “aunty give me cake” dress bought by Jaiyeoba — a visual cue that signals her shift from commander to “wife material.”
But what if she kept the uniform? What if love didn’t require losing herself?
In the heat of gender wars on social media (for those who participate in it), we see the “if it were a man…” argument made a lot, but the truth is: it wouldn’t be. Imagine Bashorun Ga’a — of House of Ga’a — abandoning his post for romance; unthinkable. And yet, Nollywood would have us believe that this fate is not only normal for women, but desirable.
These films suggest that even when women abandon their dreams and defer to the men in their lives, they still win because they’re loved. But that’s not a win, and it’s certainly not a love story.
Sure, in real life, some women do choose love over career. But where Nollywood fails is in presenting these decisions as the ultimate success — with the woman compromised and the man unscathed.
In Labake Olododo, what the film doesn’t seem to realise is this: we know why Jaiyeoba gave her that dress. It’s not just a gift, it’s a symbol — a quiet attempt to remove her from a seat of power and place her in a domestic role. Anyone who listens to the I Said What I Said podcast knows this playbook. It’s the story of countless women in relationships with men who introduce “humbling” ideas once they feel threatened by their rise.
And so we keep watching. And slowly, we start to believe it. That these are love stories. That taming powerful, ambitious women is how to love them.
Nollywood has long told women’s stories with a frustrating lack of imagination, portraying them only as tearful, voiceless sidekicks, or vengeful Jezebels willing to do anything to get a man. And sometimes, even when women — or gender-sensitive men — are the ones telling the stories, these tired tropes still show up.
Still, there’s a tiny bit of progress. At least women in today’s Nollywood films are allowed to be powerful without automatically being labelled sex workers à la Glamour Girls (1994) or Sharon Stone (2002). Back then, power was only allowed if it came from seduction.
Now, we just need Nollywood to imagine a world where its strong women don’t have to give up their agency for the “ultimate prize”: a man.
