Humans are hopelessly addicted to naming things. It’s as if our entire species collectively decided that assigning a string of syllables to an object would magically imbue it with personality, loyalty, and possibly the ability to love us back. Don’t believe me? Fine. Name one dog, cat, horse, tortoise, or even goldfish owner who hasn’t saddled their unsuspecting pet with a name so absurd it would make their ancestors weep. Go on. I’ll wait.
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
But it doesn’t stop at animals. Oh no. We extend this madness to absolutely everything. Cars, motorcycles, boats, planes, chainsaws, lawnmowers, coffee machines, and—if you’re particularly lonely—even your toaster. Why? Because we’re emotionally stunted, sentimental primates who have tricked ourselves into believing that naming an inanimate object somehow strengthens our bond with it.
And honestly? It does. The moment you name your car Betsy, The Beast, or The Millennium Falcon, you can’t just abandon it when it breaks down in the middle of nowhere. You’re now emotionally compromised. That rusted-out, smoke-belching disaster isn’t just a vehicle anymore—it’s family.
I’m fairly certain this is a uniquely human defect. You don’t see chimpanzees pausing mid-banana massacre to christen a rock Sir Clobberington the Third before hurling it at an enemy’s skull. Then again, judging by the quality of some drivers on the road, I’m not entirely convinced there isn’t a chimp or two behind the wheel.
But I digress.
When it comes to vehicles, naming them is serious business. Your choice of moniker is a direct reflection of your personality—or at the very least, the personality you wish you had. That’s why you’ll hear guys boasting about The Punisher, The Black Mamba, The Widow-maker, or Doomsday. These names reek of testosterone, intimidation, and the quiet, unspoken possibility of deep-seated insecurity.
You don’t often hear men proudly announce that their truck is called Daisy or Buttercup. At least, not in public. Privately? Who knows. Maybe Flowerpot the Ford is out there, living its best life in secret shame.
But let’s be real—names have power. They can turn a junkyard escapee into a war machine, a beat-up sedan into a street legend, and a flying death trap into an “experimental aircraft” instead of just a really bad decision.
So, what’s in a name? Everything.
Or, at the very least, an excuse to justify your attachment to a pile of nuts and bolts that should’ve died years ago.
But hold onto your fragile sanity, because it only gets worse.
You see, the names we bestow upon our cherished possessions don’t just reflect our personalities—they betray them. Like a Freudian slip with four wheels and a questionable transmission, the name of your ride reveals more about you than a thousand therapy sessions ever could.
Take the refined, upper-crust, pinky-extended snob who thinks they ooze class. These people don’t just slap any old name on their car. Oh no. They meticulously select something dripping with sophistication, a name designed to evoke images of high society, tweed jackets, and an unearned sense of superiority. Hence why England is littered with cars named Lord Reginald, Sir Percival, Countess Eleanor, or simply J.B.—as if James Bloody Bond himself would be caught dead in a 2003 Ford Fiesta with a failing clutch.
Then, on the opposite end of the spectrum, we have the mind-meltingly insipid names crafted by those whose mental faculties hover somewhere between functionally useless and flatlining. The type of people who, when faced with the monumental responsibility of naming their beloved pet or car, gleefully fire up their last two neurones and proudly produce gems like Bark Twain, Santa Paws, Chewbarka, or The Notorious D.O.G..
Oh, but don’t relax just yet. We’re not at rock bottom.
No, my friend. That honour is reserved for the intellectual black hole that is DOGZILLA.
Let me tell you something. The first time I heard this name, my soul left my body, took one look at the world, and immediately checked out. I’m talking full astral projection. I could not breathe. I genuinely thought my ribcage would implode from laughter. For three weeks, I lived in a state of complete collapse, randomly breaking into hysterics at the thought that somewhere, out there, an unfortunate canine was being called DOGZILLA with absolute sincerity.
And yet, here’s the terrifying part: It makes perfect sense.
Because when you strip it all down—when you look deep into the deranged abyss of the human psyche—you’ll find a horrifying truth: we have to name things to care about them.
It’s a glitch in our mental wiring, a deep-rooted compulsion we can’t escape. If something doesn’t have a name, it doesn’t exist. It’s a void. A non-entity. A soulless husk devoid of meaning. But slap a ridiculous name on it? Suddenly, it’s family. It has value. You’d willingly throw yourself into traffic for Spartacus the Poodle or Mad Max the Mazda, and you won’t even question why.
This is the dark reality of our existence. We’re all just emotionally attached to a series of completely absurd names.
And we will die on this hill.
You see, the moment you name something—whether it’s a stray cat, a cockroach in your apartment, or the tumour your doctor just found—it stops being an object and starts being a tragedy. It ceases to be “just another thing” and becomes your thing. Your burden. Your responsibility. Your future therapy bill.
And the real world? Oh, it knows this weakness. It exploits it.
Take wildlife orphanages, for instance. Those crafty bastards aren’t just rescuing animals—they’re masterminds in emotional warfare. They don’t introduce you to “just a baby rhino.” No, no, no. That’s not nearly traumatising enough. Instead, they present you with Timmy. Sweet, helpless, wide-eyed Timmy. An orphan whose mother was brutally poached by men who definitely aren’t you, but now, somehow, her blood is on your hands, because if you don’t fork over your entire retirement fund, Timmy will die cold and alone in the dirt, and are you really that heartless?
And just like that, you’re in—hook, line, and soul-destroying guilt trip.
This isn’t exclusive to the conservation world, either. The commercial pet industry runs the same con. Walk into a pet shop, and what do you see? A bunch of nameless creatures, twitching around in glass enclosures, completely forgettable. You don’t feel a thing… until a perky little employee leans over and chirps,
"Oh! That’s Mr. Waffles! He loves cuddles and gets lonely at night!"
Boom. Game over. You’re emotionally compromised. Forget that you walked in for a bag of dog food—now you’re walking out with a $2,000 genetically defective pug named Mr. Waffles, whose primary function in life is to sneeze directly into your mouth and rack up incomprehensible vet bills.
And don’t even get me started on zoos.
Some poor, nameless orangutang could be rotting in a cramped enclosure for twenty years, and nobody will so much as blink. But the moment he’s christened Bobo? Oh, now it’s a goddamn crisis. Now there’s a petition. Now Bobo’s plight is making headlines, because suddenly he’s not just a monkey with an existential crisis—he’s Bobo with an existential crisis, and you need to fix it.
It’s diabolical. It’s ingenious. And it’s everywhere.
Why do you think companies name their products? Why do you think hurricanes are called things like Hurricane Katrina instead of just The Large, Wet Murder Spiral? Because if you name it, you remember it. You care about it. And if you care, you’re going to pay—whether in cash, time, or your ever-dwindling emotional stability.
And you know what the worst part is?
We fall for it. Every. Single. Time.
We just can’t help ourselves.
Because no matter how much we like to pretend we’re these logical, superior beings with big brains and critical thinking skills, the second you slap a name on something—anything—it stops being a statistic and starts being a tragedy.
And there’s no escape. Because, at the end of the day, we’re just sentimental idiots, hopelessly enslaved to the power of a goddamn name.
And so, armed with an adorable, bank-account-draining name, our freshly orphaned elephant (conveniently discovered right before peak tourist season) is ready to make his public debut. Cue the misty-eyed Instagram influencers, teary volunteers, and guilt-ridden Westerners desperate to atone for colonialism with their Platinum American Express.
But wait—there’s more!
You think this emotional extortion stops with a cute name and a tragic backstory? Oh, no, my friend. The naming scheme is only Phase One.
Phase Two? The personalised experience.
For a generous donation of only $100 a month (roughly the GDP of the entire village outside the orphanage gates, but never mind that), you—yes, YOU!—can become little Kwa-Hiri’s adoptive parent. That’s right! He’s your responsibility now! Sure, he lives in a sanctuary with 37 other orphans, but don’t think about that! This is your baby. Your special, one-of-a-kind, tragic bundle of joy. And to remind you of this, every month you’ll receive an exclusive handwritten letter from Kwa-Hiri himself—because apparently, in addition to being an elephant, he’s also shockingly literate.
And if, heaven forbid, you ever consider not renewing your monthly sponsorship?
Oh, you monster.
What will happen to poor little Kwa-Hiri now?
Will he be forced to wander the savannah, lost and alone, trunk outstretched in a desperate search for the sustenance your cold, dead heart once provided? Will he be scooped up by poachers, skinned, and sold for trinkets because you decided you needed a Netflix subscription more than a baby elephant’s survival?!
DO YOU WANT THAT ON YOUR CONSCIENCE?
Of course not. So you keep paying. And paying. And paying. Until one day, you receive an email with the subject line "A Sad Farewell to Kwa-Hiri."
Your breath catches. Your heart clenches. Oh no.
But don’t worry—it’s not what you think!
Kwa-Hiri hasn’t died. He’s just “graduating” from the orphanage! He’s all grown up now! Back to the wild! He doesn’t need you anymore! (Ignore the part where he’s still radio-collared, fed by trucks, and checked on weekly by staff who conveniently never seem to “graduate” out of your donation pool.)
But this isn’t the end, dear patron!
No, this is just the beginning—because guess what? There’s a new orphan in need of your help!
Meet Babu, an abandoned baby hippo with eyes like liquid sorrow and a penchant for sucking his stubby little toes. He’s alone. He’s vulnerable. And he needs you.
So?
Will you step up? Will you save him? …Of course you will.
You have to.
Because deep down, you know the truth. They had you at the name
Maasai Mara, Kenya, January 2013
This brings me, with all the subtlety of a freight train wrecking through a porcelain shop, to our two years of on-site, illusion-shattering exploits in the so-called “Save the African Elephants” circus. Enter the tortured protagonist of our misadventures: a teenage bull elephant, fittingly named Toto—Swahili for “the child” but, trust me, this kid was far from innocent.
Toto was already drowning in pain when Annette (my Land Rover copilot and the high priestess of elephant empathy) and I first stumbled upon him. It was sheer coincidence—or perhaps the universe’s cruel sense of humour—that we even noticed this colossal, suffering adolescent. For a young bull elephant, whose natural state is to roam in rowdy bachelor herds like a gang of wisecracking, overgrown toddlers, Toto’s solitary stance was as bizarre as a mime at a metal concert.
The kid was practically a walking tragedy. His left front leg had ballooned to twice its size, each agonising step a grim reminder that nature doesn’t always get things right. There he was, a snot-nosed teenager of three tons, limping through the savanna like a deranged circus act, his pain screaming louder than a politician’s promises.
I pulled out my camera gear—three kilograms of optics that made everything look like a warped, over-dramatised epic—and that’s when the true farce revealed itself.
Annette—bless her bleeding heart—was already dissolving into a puddle of existential despair. She had a knack for this. A dying elephant? Instant tears. A thriving elephant? Tears. The mere scent of elephant dung? Waterworks. It was like traveling with a faulty fire hydrant. But to her credit, Toto was in bad shape.
And in that moment, the real debate erupted: not about conservation strategies or the tragic irony of human neglect, but about the name. Because here’s the cold, unyielding logic: names are our currency of care. You’re far more likely to empty your wallet for “Toto, the Orphaned Adolescent Elephant” than for “one nameless member of the critically endangered pachyderm population”—the latter sounds like a bullet point in a dreary PowerPoint at some lifeless wildlife conference.
In East Africa’s high-stakes game of big mammal orphanages, where every dollar fuels fleets of helicopters and plush lodges, securing an emotionally charged name is the first move on the chessboard of donations. The formula is simple: give the little bugger a name so dripping with sweetness and pity it practically rots your moral fibre. Something that resonates with both indigenous souls and those soft-hearted Westerners nursing their colonial guilt.
Annette argued, sobbing that even a touch of melodrama was necessary to make Toto a beacon of compassion, a heartstring-tugging icon designed to milk the sympathetic dollars from your purse. And so, amidst the arid expanse of the savanna and the stifling heat of bureaucratic apathy, the name “Toto” was etched into our collective consciousness—a simple moniker meant to transform a limping, suffering giant into a cause célèbre.
But as I stood there, camera in hand, witnessing this tragic farce, I realised that in a world where a name can flip an elephant’s fate from nameless misery to an emotional billboard for donations, we’re all just collateral damage. We’ve traded genuine concern for a system that exploits our deepest vulnerabilities—our need to connect, to name, to care—into a relentless machine of profit and pity.
And that, my friends, is the raw, unfiltered truth of it all.
Oh, but the plot thickens. Entirely without intention—much like an ill-fated fart in a crowded elevator—the name Toto stuck.
And let me tell you, this development ignited a level of outrage that could only be matched by the scandal of serving unsweetened tea in the Deep South. The sheer, unmitigated audacity! The self-proclaimed elephant “experts” of East Africa, those omnipotent sages who lurk in the shadows of conservation conferences and wield their encyclopaedic knowledge like a sceptre, were positively aghast. How dare we name an elephant without first crawling on our bellies in deference to their divine authority?
But alas, the damage was done. By the time the peanut gallery had assembled, wagging fingers and clutching their pearls, Toto’s story had already made its grand debut on social media. And just like that, the masses—those wonderful, sentimental souls—latched onto the name with the tenacity of a tick on a buffalo’s backside. Any effort to rename him was met with the digital equivalent of an exorcism-resistant demon. The experts huffed. They puffed. They pontificated in lengthy, self-righteous rants. But Toto remained Toto.
And this, dear reader, reignited one of my long-standing irritations: the grotesquely entitled human compulsion to claim ownership over wild animals through the mere act of naming them. The gall. The hubris. The utterly colonialist assumption that a creature who has survived millennia without our interference must now be blessed with an anthropomorphised identity to have any worth.
Of course, at the time, this belief was simply a pet peeve of mine. A minor irritation, like a mosquito bite you resist scratching out of sheer principle. That is, until I discovered the underlying machinery behind it all.
Believe it or not, there exist entire databases maintained by “master scientists” who—for the small price of a generous donation—will allow you the honour of “suggesting” a name for an undocumented elephant. That’s right, folks. Buy a name, save the world. Or, more accurately, buy a name, save a cushy NGO salary.
And if you thought that was bad, allow me to introduce the insatiable beast that is the East African animal orphanage industrial complex. The moment Toto’s story gained traction, one such establishment made an aggressive move to claim him, like a particularly determined real estate developer eyeing prime beachfront property. Their tactics? Simple: erase all traces of our involvement. Ignore every attempt we made to communicate. Rewrite the narrative. After all, he was worth more to them in a heroic, Disney-esque rescue story than as the unfortunate, barely-surviving casualty of human negligence that he truly was.
Annette and I, however, could not have cared less. We were too busy dealing with the grim reality of Toto’s situation—because while the bureaucratic machine scrambled to commodify him, the sad truth was that this little elephant had no real chance of making it. And no name, no social media fame, no tear-jerking donation campaign was going to change that.
Still, the experience was not without its lessons. I walked away with one particularly valuable insight.
If I ever stumble upon an elephant again…
I will name him DOGZILLA, and he will be mine.
Marcel Romdane
"TOTO". Annette. Toto, in obvious agony. DOGZILLA!!
