They don't make football gods anymore. And if you never saw them, you will never understand why the Oracle and old men cry when they watch football today.

I am talking about Uganda's golden gods. Not influencers. Not P2 boys playing for university allowances. Gods.

The first one I watched who made my heart stop was Kirungi Minora Giliita.

Giliita was not a footballer; he was a magician with a ball tied to his feet. He could dribble past you, turn, dribble past you again, and ask you where you were going. Like Messi today, cutting inside on that left foot, Giliita had his own side, and once he went there, you were finished. He was everywhere on the pitch. People would ask, "Which position is Minora playing today?" Because he was playing all of them: defence, midfield, attack. He was the whole team in one body.

He was so good, so untouchable, that they could not stop him with football. So they tried to stop him with rules. One day, after he had already scored two goals and torn the defence to pieces, the officials pulled him off the pitch and locked him away in the dressing room to give the other team a chance to breathe. The crowd refused. The stadium roared, "Bring back Giliita! Bring back Giliita!" They had no choice. They opened the door and allowed him back in. He walked back onto the pitch like a king returning from exile, collected the ball, dribbled through the same men who had begged for him to be removed, and scored again. That is not a story. That is a legend. That is why they introduced football licences in Uganda. Because one man was too dangerous to be left unlicensed.

Then there was Mike Mukasa, the goalkeeper.

In a shootout of five penalties, this man saved three. Three! Today, even in the World Cup, you will watch the best goalkeepers in the world—Martinez, Courtois, Donnarumma—and they will be celebrated for saving one. Mukasa saved three out of five like he was picking mangoes. In those days, a penalty against Uganda was not a goal. It was a gamble.

And there was Saddick Wassa. A wall. A name that made strikers pray before they shot.

Then Mukasa Gaso.

They called him Gaso because, at that time, there was a Gaso bus that moved like it was running from death. Fast. Furious. Uncatchable. When Gaso got the ball on the number 11, it was over. He would sprint and disappear. Ssekatawa was the number 9, the centre-forward, the killer in the box. But when Gaso got the ball, even Ssekatawa would just watch. Because Gaso was already gone, like the wind.

Sulaiman Kato was the corner specialist. Give him a corner, and it was as good as a penalty. The ball would bend like it had a brain. Beckham would be proud. And Moses Ndawula? Free kicks from far? The best in the country. From 35 yards, he would hit it, and the goalkeeper would only hear the net shake. Like Roberto Carlos against France in 1997, that impossible banana shot. Ndawula was doing it on dusty Ugandan pitches, in front of screaming crowds.

But wait. Philip Omondi.

Omondi's ball control was not football. It was witchcraft. It was magic. The ball obeyed him like a dog.

One day, Arab Contractors had come to Uganda to play KCC Kasasiro Boys. The whole country had come to watch. Omondi received the ball, dribbled past one, past two, past three, beat the goalkeeper, and scored. Then, as if that was not enough, he lifted the ball into the air, let it drop, beat the goalkeeper AGAIN, and scored again in the same move. The whole stadium exploded. Even the Arabs in the pavilion stood up and started shouting, "ALLAH AKBAR! ALLAH AKBAR! ALLAH AKBAR!" They had come to play a match; they left as believers. That day, Omondi was taken away. That was the beginning of his professional journey. That is what greatness does: it makes even strangers praise your God.

And Magid Musisi, Tyson.

He would spin with the ball like lightning, like a tornado, and score from impossible angles. Angles that geometry says no to. He was the first Ugandan to be paid 1 billion shillings to go and play in Europe. One billion! When Europe was paying millions for Maradona and Van Basten, Uganda had already produced a billion-shilling boy.

Paul Hasule, V8.

This man knew football, and he was educated. He played number 4, but he would overlap like a Land Cruiser V8 climbing a hill. Powerful. Smooth. Unstoppable. A defender who attacked like a striker.

And then the rest, the army of immortals: Ronald Vubya, Steven Bogere, Mukatabala, Roger Nsubuga, Jackson Mayanja, Jimmy Kirunda, Dennis Obua, Timothy Ayeko, Polly Ouma, John Ross Latigo, Andrew Fimbo Mukasa, Mathew Lucha, Mike Kiganda, Sam Simbwa, Sanday Mokili, Godfrey Katerega.

These are players we will only dream about now. Because with them, the national team—the Cranes—was not a joke. It was an outfit of top class. SC Villa reached back-to-back Africa Club Championship finals. Back-to-back! No club in Uganda will ever reach that stage again in our times. In Europe, they talk about Real Madrid's three Champions Leagues in a row. In Uganda, we had Villa going to the final of Africa twice, carrying the whole nation on their backs.

And listen to who Villa had to kill to get there. They faced the Nigerian giants—Iwuanyanwu FC, Iwuanyanwu Nationale, the money men of Africa, the team that thought they owned the continent. Villa beat them. They faced Shooting Stars of Nigeria, the famous Ibadan warriors, the team with history dripping from their shirts. Villa beat them too. Villa only lost in the finals. At the very last door. That is how big Villa was. They were not beating small teams. They were slaying giants.

And behind them, great men like Patrick Kawooya, Bidandi Ssali, Adipondo, Faisal Damulira, Jack Ibare, Abdallahiman Hippo, Bbale Mugera, Buyondo, Misagga Ben, Franco Mugabe—these guys managed football with heart. With love. They deserve a national anthem and a box of medals.

Today? Today, you have mature players of P2 playing at university. We have failed to manufacture and nurture players to a fair level. The national team interests kindergarten because they play for money like dikula. Football now is for machinations and wagner. No heart. No magic. No Giliita.

So, when we old ones talk, don't laugh. We saw football when football was football. We saw gods walk on earth in jerseys.

Tulabye Ayi Katonda etuyambe, bulikimu kyasoba.

The gods of Kifuuta Kyotera Buddu come in to give us football; the Oracle of Kifuuta Katooke Kyotera Buddu drives in memories. I have seen it all.