The Great Split of Abâa (tiny tale)
A funny story to read, at least, with a smile. (“You laugh poorly at others when you haven’t first learned to laugh at yourself.” — Paul Léautaud, 1872–1956)
Once upon a very long time ago…
As the legend goes, about one hundred thousand years ago,
a particularly hairy bunch of brown-skinned bipeds
was still on the move —
walking and walking and walking.
They had left the fertile plains of Africa so long ago
that even the oldest among them,
a certain Rokh-Rokh,
couldn’t quite remember what a mango tasted like anymore.
They called themselves the Krouk-Krouk,
mostly because it was the only sound
they could make without biting their tongues.
And one day,
according to the wise Krouk-Krouk scholars,
they reached the end of the Middle East —
or at least, a crossroads that felt important.
The Chief and the Two Paths
Legend has it that their chief, a big, broad man named Grouf,
stood on top of a small hill, looking thoughtful.
Thoughtful — for a Krouk-Krouk —
meant scratching his nose slowly with his big finger
and blinking in rhythm,
like a frog thinking too hard.
Below him lay two valleys.
Two paths.
Two choices.
One went to the right, toward the East, toward Asia.
The sun rose there, bright and wild,
promising vast plains,
unexplored jungles,
and maybe animals no one had ever hunted.
The other went to the left, toward the West,
toward a cooler, shadier land —
the one we’d later call Europe.
That path looked darker,
the breeze cooler,
the mountains steeper,
and the shadows longer.
Grouf squinted.
Two paths.
Two destinies.
Behind him stood fifty Krouk-Krouk —
all dark, all hairy, all alike.
All… except one.
And that’s where the story of Abâa begins.
The Odd One Out
Abâa was different.
He was an albino —
white as milk,
with snow-colored hair
and eyes that turned red in the sunlight.
He always wore a huge hat made of woven leaves
(a completely useless invention for the others,
whose “headgear” was a thick mop of curls).
He slinked from shadow to shadow like a cat,
always muttering —
not from sadness,
but from sheer irritation
at that awful blazing sun.
And as if that weren’t enough,
Abâa was left-handed.
In a tribe where everyone did everything
with the right hand —
breaking bones, carving flint,
giving friendly smacks —
Abâa did it all backward.
His nickname?
“Krak-Krak.”
Which, in Krouk-Krouk, meant something like:
“The guy who does everything backward and burns in the sun.”
The Great Debate
Legend has it that Grouf, the chief, raised his arm
and pointed his right finger toward the right.
“GROURRFFF!”
A free translation —
according to the two elders who still had half of their teeth:
“That road looks wide and welcoming.
The sun pushes us that way.
It’s the path of comfort and plenty.”
The tribe roared in agreement.
“Oumph! Oumph!” (We agree!)
“Haaaaa!” (The animals must be fatter there!)
Then, from under his leafy hat,
Abâa raised his left hand
and pointed left.
A faint, whistly sound escaped his lips.
“Sss-shhh…”
Grouf turned, puzzled and slightly annoyed.
“GRRR?”
(What’s that, Abâa?
You basing this on science or just one of your gut feelings again?)
Abâa shuffled sideways, avoiding a sunbeam.
“Sss-shhh-POUF!”
His wife Assa, practical as always,
rolled her eyes and translated:
“He says he wants to go where it’s cooler.
The right-side path is too sunny.
He wants to go where there’s lots of shade
and maybe some white powder to soothe his eyes —
he calls it snow.”
The tribe exploded with laughter,
a chorus of loud, happy “HUEH-HUEH-HUEH!”
“Snow”? Ridiculous!
As ridiculous as using fire to cook meat
instead of just hunting and eating raw.
One muscled hunter named Gnak
stepped forward proudly and bellowed:
“GNAC-GNAC-GNAC!”
(Shade is for the weak!
The sun makes us strong!
Look at this skin — made for glory!)
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He flexed his shiny black arm for everyone to see.
Abâa clenched his pale fist.
“Sss-shhh-KRUNK!”
(And what about me, huh?
You think I like bathing in mud every morning
just to avoid turning into a boiled shrimp?
I vote for the cool path!)
Grouf sighed —
a long, heavy sigh that sounded like
a bison choking on a rock.
“GROURRFFF-MFF!”
(Abâa, my friend.
Since the dawn of time, we go right.
We throw with the right hand, we eat with the right,
we walk straight.
Right is order.
You — you are left.)
The Final Word
The air grew thick.
History itself was hanging in the balance —
on one man’s skin tone
and another’s hand preference.
Grouf rubbed his forehead,
clearly running out of patience.
Arguing with Abâa was exhausting.
He always wanted shade,
milder food,
and used tools the wrong way.
Then Grouf had a moment of genius —
or maybe it was just that sour berry he’d eaten earlier.
He jabbed his finger toward the left.
“HAOU-HAOU-HAOU!”
(You know what, Abâa? Fine!
You wanna go left? Go!
We’re tired of waiting for you to hide behind rocks.
You’re the man of the West —
we’re the men of the East!)
Then he looked at Assa,
and said the sentence that would echo
through one hundred thousand years of human evolution:
“Take your family and go!
We’re going right!”
The tribe cheered with relief:
“Oumph! Oumph! GO!”
And that,
was that.
The Journey into Shade
As the elders say, Abâa packed up his things —
his big leafy hat,
his soft animal skin to protect his fragile hide,
and his family: Assa,
and their two children,
luckily brown like their mother.
Assa folded her arms.
“You sure about this, Abâa?
The Krouk-Krouk are always right.”
Abâa smiled —
his teeth faintly pink from lack of sun.
“Sss-shhh-LIBERTY!”
(The right not to fry is a fundamental right, Assa.
Besides… I’m left-handed.
I can’t possibly go right.)
And so,
Abâa the left-handed albino
turned his back on the rising sun
and stepped into the shade —
toward the valleys, the forests,
and eventually, the faraway continent of Europe.
He didn’t know it,
but inside him he carried the seed
of his descendants’ pale skin.
The Cosmetic Epilogue
The Eastern Krouk-Krouk marched off happily.
They walked, and walked, and walked —
across endless steppes,
newborn deserts,
and wide-open plains where,
as Abâa would have said,
“the sun was way too mean.”
Generation after generation,
the sun got cooler, less hot, but still strong.
“GROURRFFF!” (What light! What warmth!) they cried.
But nature has a wicked sense of humor.
To survive that different sunlight,
their skin began to lighten —
just a little.
Then a little more.
Their faces changed,
their hair straightened,
their eyes narrowed to handle the glare.
After tens of thousands of years,
they became the sturdy, beautiful people
we now call East Asians —
the “yellow” peoples.
They had chased the sun,
and the sun, in return,
reshaped them with cosmic irony.
Meanwhile,
Abâa’s descendants trudged westward.
Into Europe —
where skies were gray,
forests thick,
and sunlight rare.
There,
melanin was no longer needed.
To catch what little sunlight they had,
their skin grew lighter —
and lighter,
and lighter still.
Abâa’s genes — helped along by chance —
spread far and wide.
They became pale,
they became white,
and, just to keep the joke going,
many stayed left-handed.
They settled happily in the gloom,
proud of their fair skin —
proof, to them,
that they’d finally beaten the sun.
And that’s how it happened.
The greatest split in human history —
the Big Bifurcation of Homo sapiens —
wasn’t caused by strategy,
or survival,
or divine will.
It all came down to a left-handed albino
who hated the sun,
and a tired chief
who just wanted him to “go left”
so everyone else could finally go right in peace.
And it all began,
at a place later called “Dülük”,
under a milder sun,
with one quiet “Sss-shhh-POUF!”
and one unforgettable line:
“Take your family and go!”
And thus concludes this tiny tale from the sage Krouk-Krouk elders.
Of course, this is absurd fiction, not an anthropology course.
(Corrected and formatted by Gemini, a large language model, trained by Google. Translated from French by GPT-5, created by OpenAI.. Thank you for your understanding)
