Play to Novel

I consider myself a writer; not just a poet, novelist, lyricist, playwright, or anything else. Simply a writer. I dabble into all of them; I enjoy creating them all; and I don't claim to be the only one doing that. I am all, but not exclusively limited to one.
Recently, after struggling with writer's block and other excuses we give names to for laziness, I decided to write a novel based on my first play, Where Flies Flock, and not just create a new work wrapped around the play's shell (think book-to-movie), but use the same dialogue and scenes from the book. While doing this, I noticed that I had actually written the play like a dialogue novel - a novel in play-mode, if you understand what I'm saying.
Here's a raw excerpt from the beginning of the novel:

The sun beamed down mercilessly above the man tilling the brown earth. He had awakened before the sun had broken through the eastern horizon and ate his usual morning meal of sorghum porridge and imvage before everyone else in his household, except his wife, had aroused for the day. The first rays of the rising sun had found him meandering up the hill on a path invisible to all but his experienced feet. He had arrived at the untilled ground and began work without bothering to remove the myriad of ibishokoro and other grass that had attached themselves to his tattered pants. Instead, he rolled them up to just below his knees, grabbed his hoe, and selected a place next to where he had left off the previous day, and began plowing.

Now Yohanna began to feel a pang in his belly and knew it was nearing time for his midday repose. He made a mental note of a spot twenty steps ahead of him where he wanted to reach before he rested. He removed his safari-style hat and, with it, wiped the sweat from his gnarled brow. He readjusted it on his head, greased his palms with a spit missile, and returned to upturning the land.

Fifteen minutes later, he had reached his goal and added another five or so steps. He headed for the shade of a nearby group of eucalyptus tree and leaned against one. Yohanna removed his hat and held it crumpled in his left hand. With his right hand, he reached for his water jug, removed the lid, and took a few swallows. He had to be careful to leave some for his meal and the rest of the day. He put the jug on the ground, made sure it was on even setting, and put the lid back on.

He turned towards the crumpled hat. It had been given to him by Belgian missionaries many years ago that it still surprised him the thing had lasted this long. He unfurled it and looked at the words that had been stitched in so many years ago. The stitching had made it possible for them to escape the many washings they had been subjected to in the twenty-odd years. He remembered the missionary telling him the hat had been bought in America on an excursion to a church meeting there. The words “Don’t Worry: Be Happy” meant not to worry about anything, but always to keep smiling. Or so he was told. Unfortunately, the happy face that had been on there had not been lucky enough to be stitched on and it had been washed off. Yohanna unconsciously put his right index finger on the spot where he remembered the smiling face to be. The material was soft now, not to the point where it was brittle to the touch, but he imagined it wasn’t going to be long before it reached that point.

He tried to think of the missionary’s name, but it failed him. He remembered the man befriending him because of his hard work on the mission’s farm. School had never impressed Yohanna much, but he enjoyed Agronomy because of the opportunity to showcase the skills his father had passed onto him. Whether it was tending to the young sprouts, watering the mature vegetables, or herding the cattle, Yohanna always exuded a certain quality of hard work that failed other students and most staff. This allowed his missionary teachers to overlook his poor marks in other areas, as they envisioned a farming career for him, and who, after all, needs arithmetic in farming? The missionary had been a teacher at the school but Yohanna could not recall the subject he taught. He just remembered that he had been given the hat to shield him from the hot sun he was usually under while working at the farm. The story had been an extra, but Yohanna took it to heart and used to walk the school grounds with a smile planted on his face. The hat was removed from his constantly shaven head only when he entered a building, bathed, or went to sleep. 

Lots editing will need to be done, but this is where I'm going with it...I have a few pages done, will be done when it's ready...be on the lookout.