Abel Tesfaye—the man the world knows as The Weeknd—has spent over a decade dominating the charts with songs about late nights, heartbreak, and chemical escapism. But if you listen closely to the lyrics of House of Balloons or the jagged vulnerability of Starboy, there is a specific, recurring ghost in the room. It’s his dad.
Makonnen Tesfaye.
He isn't a celebrity. He isn't a public figure who does "tell-all" interviews or posts on Instagram. Honestly, he’s mostly a mystery to the millions of people who scream Abel’s lyrics back at him in sold-out stadiums. But to understand why The Weeknd’s music feels so detached and lonely, you actually have to understand the guy who wasn't there.
A Disappearing Act in Scarborough
The story starts in Toronto. Specifically, the Scarborough district. Abel was born in 1990 to Ethiopian immigrants, Makonnen and Samra Tesfaye. They had come to Canada in the late 1980s, fleeing the upheaval in their home country, hoping for that classic "better life" narrative we always hear about.
It didn't stick.
By the time Abel was just a toddler—roughly one or two years old—Makonnen was gone. He didn't just step out for milk; he left the family entirely. This left Samra to raise Abel as a single mother, working multiple jobs (often as a nurse and a caterer) while Abel’s grandmother stepped in to teach him Amharic and keep the Ethiopian culture alive in their small apartment.
Growing up without a father is a cliché in the music industry, but for Abel, it was a fundamental architectural flaw in his upbringing. He’s been very candid in the few interviews he gives—like his 2015 sit-down with Rolling Stone—about the fact that he didn't have a "bad" relationship with his father. He had no relationship.
"I saw him vaguely when I was six, and then again when I was 11 or 12, and he had a new family and kids," Abel told the magazine.
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Imagine that for a second. You’re a pre-teen, trying to figure out your place in a cold city like Toronto, and you see the man who gave you your name, and he’s basically a stranger with a whole new life that doesn't include you. That does things to a kid's head. It creates a specific kind of "darkness" that isn't about being edgy; it’s about feeling disposable.
The Weeknd Father: Why the Absence Defined the Artist
When people ask about The Weeknd father, they’re usually looking for a "gotcha" moment or a tragic reunion story. The reality is much more mundane and, in many ways, more painful. Makonnen wasn't a villain in the traditional sense. He wasn't abusive. He just wasn't present.
Abel has mentioned that he doesn't even judge the man. "I'm sure he's a great guy," he once said. He noted that his father wasn't "mean," he just wasn't there. That's a very mature way to look at abandonment, but you can hear the scars in the music.
Think about the song "Tell Your Friends." There’s a line where he mentions his mother being proud of him because he "dropped out of school" and still made it, but the subtext is always that he did it without a patriarch guiding the way.
The Weeknd’s entire persona—the drugs, the nihilism, the "I don't care about anything" attitude—is a classic defense mechanism for someone who grew up feeling like the most important man in his life didn't choose him. He’s essentially spent his career being the "bad boy" his father never got to discipline or guide.
The Ethiopian Connection
Despite the absence, Makonnen left one thing behind: heritage. Even though he wasn't around, the Ethiopian roots were planted deep. Abel’s mother and grandmother made sure of that.
The "Habesha" culture is incredibly tight-knit. If you go to an Ethiopian restaurant in Toronto or DC, you'll likely hear The Weeknd playing, not just because he's a superstar, but because he’s their superstar. He uses scales and vocal runs—those fluttering, high-pitched trills—that come directly from traditional Ethiopian music (Tezeta).
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It’s an interesting paradox. The Weeknd father gave him the DNA and the cultural background that makes his music unique, but he wasn't there to see him turn those tools into a billion-dollar empire.
Why It Matters Now
In 2026, we look at celebrities through a very different lens than we did ten years ago. We care about the "why."
We see Abel transitioning away from "The Weeknd" moniker. He’s told fans he wants to "kill" the persona and perhaps perform as Abel Tesfaye going forward. This is a massive psychological shift. For years, "The Weeknd" was a mask. It was a shield. By returning to his birth name—the name given to him by Makonnen and Samra—he is effectively reclaiming his identity.
He’s no longer the kid hiding from his past in a haze of party music. He’s a man who has come to terms with the empty chair at the dinner table.
There have been rumors over the years about Makonnen trying to reach out or being proud of his son from a distance. In some reports, Makonnen has expressed a desire to reconnect, citing that he never wanted to be estranged but that life and circumstances (and the breakdown of the relationship with Abel's mother) made things difficult. Whether those bridges have been fully built in private is something Abel keeps close to his chest.
He's very protective of his private life. You won't see him posting "Father's Day" tributes or airing out dirty laundry on a podcast. That's not his style. He’s always been about the mystery.
The Psychological Impact on the Lyrics
If you want to understand the "The Weeknd father" dynamic, you don't look at tabloids. You look at the lyrics.
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- Isolation: Songs like "Privilege" or "Until I Bleed Out" aren't just about girls. They are about a fundamental sense of being alone in the world.
- Commitment Issues: A recurring theme in his discography is the inability to stay. He’s the one who leaves before he can be left. That is textbook behavior for someone whose primary male role model did the exact same thing.
- The Search for Validation: The excess—the cars, the Grammys, the Super Bowl halftime show—feels like a loud signal. "Look at what I did without you."
What We Can Learn From This
The story of Abel and Makonnen Tesfaye isn't unique, but it is high-profile. It reminds us that "success" is often fueled by a need to fill a hole.
Abel didn't have a dad to play catch with in the park. Instead, he had the streets of Toronto and a pair of headphones. He took that vacuum of fatherly guidance and filled it with cinema, 80s pop, and R&B. He turned a negative into a global phenomenon.
Honestly, it’s kinda impressive. Most people would just be bitter. Abel became a legend.
If you’re looking for a takeaway, it’s that the people who aren't in our lives often shape us just as much as the people who are. The Weeknd is the artist he is because of the void Makonnen left. That silence was the loudest thing in his life.
Moving Forward: Reclaiming the Name
As Abel moves into the next phase of his career—likely dropping the "Weeknd" brand for good—he is stepping into his own as Abel Tesfaye. This is the ultimate act of closure. By using his real name, he is no longer defined by the "weekend" he ran away from home and never came back. He’s defining himself by the name his parents gave him, regardless of whether they were both there to see him grow up.
Next Steps for Fans and Researchers:
- Listen to "Tezeta" (Nostalgia) music: To understand the sonic influence Abel’s father’s culture had on him, look up artists like Aster Aweke or Mahmoud Ahmed. You'll hear the "The Weeknd" sound in its rawest, original form.
- Watch the "After Hours" Short Film: Look at the themes of identity and facial transformation. It’s a visual representation of someone trying to find their true face when they didn't have a mirror (a father) to look into.
- Follow the "Abel" Transition: Keep an eye on his social media handles. The shift from @theweeknd to @abeltesfaye is more than just branding; it's a personal evolution that signals he’s finally okay with who he is, past and all.
The Weeknd father might have been a ghost for thirty years, but the man Abel has become is very real, very present, and finally ready to speak for himself.