PROFILE: Dickson Matata - The man who brought American R&B icon Joe to Nairobi

Let’s get something out of the way before we go any further, American R&B legend Joe Thomas does not simply show up anywhere. Not for just anyone. This is a man whose voice soundtracked slow dances, heartbreaks, and those dangerously late-night dedications on radio of the ‘90s and the 2000s. A proper R&B music god with the discography of a lifetime and the rider of a small government delegation, the sort of artist who travels with contracts thicker than a Sunday newspaper and management teams that ask a hundred suspicious questions before they even glance at your stage.

So, when word went round that Joe was flying into Kenya for a show in December 2025, you had to wonder, almost instinctively: who on earth convinced Joe to come here, and more importantly, who trusted themselves enough to pull it off without the whole thing collapsing like so many big events did las year?

Because bringing a global act to Nairobi isn’t just vibes and posters and social media influencers. It’s paperwork, deposits, negotiations, credibility, and the kind of reputation that can survive scrutiny. It’s adult work. Serious work. Work done by someone who understands that artists are brands and brands don’t gamble.

And somewhere behind that stage, somewhere between the soundchecks and the sponsors’ banners and the quietly humming logistics machine, stood a soft-spoken, easy-laughing man you might easily mistake for an accountant rather than an events impresario. The sort of guy who looks like he would politely hold your door open and apologise if you bumped into him.

Meet Dickson Matata.

Which, frankly, is not the name you expect when you picture the man coordinating international riders and flying in talent from the UK and the US and Southern Africa like it’s just another Tuesday errand.

But that’s the joke life sometimes plays: the quiet ones are the ones moving mountains while the loud ones are still tweeting about it.

Before bringing Joe to a Kenyan stage, before the sold-out lawns in Tigoni, before thousands of millennials in sunglasses and linen shirts pretending they don’t have Monday responsibilities, Dickson’s life was painfully straight-laced, almost aggressively sensible, the kind of trajectory that makes parents sleep well at night.

He studied Actuarial Science. Yes. Actuarial Science. You know; numbers, risk tables, insurance models, mortality projections. Spreadsheets that look like they could drain the colour out of your soul. That Actuarial Science.

Then he joined one of the biggest insurance companies in East and Central Africa, rose fast, did everything right, ticked every corporate box like the good son of discipline and caution, and on paper it was perfect; he had a stable income, was staring at steady growth, and had a clear ladder stretching upward like a promise. The only problem was that, somewhere along that ladder, the air started feeling thin.

“I worked in insurance for about two-and-a-half years and realized I wasn’t happy. My boss had been in the same position for 25 years and I thought, ‘If I stay, this will be me.’ And that scared me,” he says during an interview with Citizen Digital at an upmarket restaurant on Dennis Pritt, Kilimani, while sipping from a glass of very cold passion juice due to the heat.

So, he did something that makes African parents reach for Panadol: he walked away.

A mentor told him what his heart already suspected, that he wasn’t wired for fluorescent lights and quarterly reviews, that he was “more of a marketer than a corporate guy.” And so he went back to school, did CIM (UK), started his own agency, and just as the wheels began turning nicely… COVID arrived like an uninvited uncle and cleared the table.

And just like that, clients disappeared, budgets froze and his plans started evaporating. For many people, that’s where the dream quietly dies and you crawl back to employment. Dickson, however, is stubborn in a very peculiar Kenyan way.

So, he started doing small gigs under Crispy Life Events, the mother company for all his ideas. He hustled, experimented, tried things, fell flat on his face, stood up again, brushed the dust off, and repeated the cycle like a man possessed. He tells these stories without shame, almost laughing at himself.

“A friend of mine used to own some establishment at a mall in South B, so at one point I tried to do an event called ‘The High Life’ for KQ pilots; less than 10 people showed up, and four of them were my friends. It was painful,” he recalls.

“In 2023, we brought in an international group called WSTRN, but the mistake we made was that we never understood our target audience. So we overestimated everything, overpriced the tickets, and expected sponsors to chase us. Instead, we were the ones chasing them. We projected 3,000 ticket sales, but only sold about 1,500, so we ended up making a big loss.”

He adds, almost strangely: “But honestly, it was the sweetest loss because we learned three key things for event organizing: know your target audience, price correctly, deliver value.”

Somewhere between those bruises and those late nights, an idea began to form. And No! Not another club night, not another overcrowded party with sticky floors and people shouting over bad speakers, but something warmer, slower, more intentional, the kind of gathering that feels less like a rave and more like a family reunion with better music.

Dickson wanted to recreate the experiences he grew up with: food, music, people sitting comfortably, conversations flowing, everyone dressed nicely, everyone home by midnight like responsible adults who still have lives. And that’s how Rhythm & Brunch was born. His “first baby,” as he calls it.

It started modestly in March 2024 at a small spot opposite Yaya Centre, about 200 people per edition, nothing wild, nothing headline-grabbing, just good music and good company. And then he scrolled through the feedback and realized that the attendees wanted something else.

They wanted outdoors. Garden setups. Space to breathe. Seating for everyone, not just VIPs. Better washrooms; proper ones, not those tiny plastic boxes that feel like punishment. DJs who don’t cut songs too early. Events on Saturday instead of Sunday because, as he puts it with a laugh, “maybe on Sunday your house help is off and you have to stay with the baby.”

So they moved. From indoors to Tigoni. From small to spacious. From 200 to a target of 400. Then 1,500 people showed up.

“Once we saw the numbers, we closed the ticket sales a week before the event for better planning. We held the event at Naiposha Gardens and it was magical, the brand blew up. The initial idea was to be doing one outdoor event per year, but the demand was so high that we had to do another one in October. Which was also sold out,” he says with gleeful pride.

“But October was funny. It rained badly. The road to and from the venue was terrible, guys were getting stuck. At some point around 10pm, I gave up and went to sleep because I was exhausted. I woke up at 5am the next morning to check reviews online, and surprisingly everyone was still happy about the experience, even with the rain.”

That’s when it hit him, that this wasn’t just an event anymore. It was a community. And communities forgive rain. They don’t forgive carelessness.

From there Rhythm & Brunch snowballed and took a life of its own; Mombasa, Dar es Salaam, sold-out editions, bigger venues like Ngong Racecourse, carefully capped tickets because, as Dickson insists, “we don’t want to scale so much that we ruin the vibe.”

Now, after bringing in Joe last year, Dickson and his team are bringing in Sol & The Gang from the UK to perform for three full hours this Valentine’s Day at Naishola Gardens in Tigoni, the first stop in their African tour.

Through it all, Dickson’s philosophy remains almost old-school in its simplicity; first the customer, then the partners, then the company. “If the first two are happy, we’ll be happy. If we’re happy and they’re not happy, then will have done nothing,” he says.

Today, Dickson is 35, a father to a five-month-old son, and the same man who once chased every gig now happily turns down club nights to stay home.

“I was having a conversation with my friends, most of whom are fathers already, on how they used to leave their houses to come chill with us in the clubs and they have kids at home. I was wondering, where do you get that strength to leave your kid? Because, personally, I just want to see my kid every day. Now they call me to clubs and I'm like, count me out, I'm staying home with my son,” he says mid laughter.

For someone who risks money, reputation and logistics on events that could go wrong at any second, it’s telling that when asked what scares him most – between events and fatherhood - he doesn’t even hesitate.

“Fatherhood, every day.”

Because stages can be rebuilt. Crowds come and go. But being a present father? That’s the real high-stakes game.

“My biggest fear now that I'm a father is failing my baby; not being a father that they can look up to, or me not being able to guide them to get to the best of their ability. It's something that my wife and I promised ourselves, that we try to be there for our kids as much as possible,” he says.

From ten guests and four sympathetic friends at his first event to thousands of loyal fans and international headliners, Dickson Matata didn’t stumble into this. He built it slowly, stubbornly, like a man setting up chairs before the party starts.

Now, when legends like Joe and Sol & the Gang land in Nairobi and the lights come on and the crowd sings every word, you realise the magic didn’t happen by accident. And somewhere behind the stage, probably smiling quietly and checking that the washrooms are clean and the seats are enough, will be the former actuary who traded spreadsheets for sound systems and decided that if he was going to gamble on anything, it might as well be joy.

Yet, still, for all this, Dickson has learnt that the real victories aren’t always the loud ones under stage lights, but the quiet, steady ones built at home. Because for all the risks he takes in business, all the deposits wired to foreign agents and all the sleepless nights watching weather forecasts like a farmer guarding his harvest, the one thing he never bets recklessly with is the small, sacred circle waiting for him after the music fades.

“I feel like I got the best spouse, I won in that sector, because my wife is very supportive and believes in my crazy ideas. She's the one person I can tell an idea and she'll be like, ‘that's really dope, go for it.’ That kind of support has increased my self-belief; that I know I can do it, but even if things fail, she’ll always have my back,” he says.

“My wife and I have been together for ten years now. When we met, she was an entrepreneur and I was in the corporate world. So, she’s actually more of a risk taker than I am. Because I always used to ask her how she would just put all her money on something and hope it comes back. But now it’s the other way round.”

And so while the crowd may see the stages, the artists, the fireworks and the perfectly arranged picnic chairs, Dickson sees something simpler and far more important; a life where he can build beautiful experiences for strangers by day and still hurry home at night to the woman who steadies him and the son who has already made him softer, proof that even the boldest risk-takers need one place where they don’t have to perform at all.